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JAMES NACK. 



ITEW YOEK: 

DELISSER & PROCTER, 508 BROADWAY, 
1859. 










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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, 

By JAMES NACK, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern 

District of New York. 



I 



P. CAnRiCK, Printer, 
248 Canal Street, New York. 



TO 



C. NESTELL BOVEE, Esq. 



My Deak Sm: 

There cannot be a more effectual way to connect 
tlie publication of a volume witli pleasant reminis- 
cences, than to associate it with the name of a clier- 
isbed friend. It is therefore perfectly natural that I 
should inscribe the present volume to you as an 
offering of esteem and affection. 

Wishing, rather than expecting, that the following 
pages may in part repay the gratification I have 
derived from yours, I indulge myself at once in a 
pleasure and an honor, by subscribing myself 

YovR Feiend, 

JAMES NACK. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR 5 

THE ROMANCE OF THE RING 13 

THE SPIRIT OF YENGEANCE 3t 

LOYE'S YOUNG DREAM 91 

The Flo-wer of Love 93 

Mj Blue-Eyed Maid 94 

My Fondest and Fairest 95 

The Charms of Woman 96 

The Grave of Mary 98 

My own, my chosen Bride 99 

Love without Hope 199 

Love will Find out the Way 102 

My Love loves Me 104 

Broken Ties lOG 

The Best and the Worst of It 107 

The Lock of Hair 108 

I know that Thou art for Away, 109 

Love's Ambition 110 

Wedded Lovo 112 



li CONTENTS. 

DOMESTIC PIECES 115 

A New Year's Greeting to My Daughter 118 

To My Wife 120 

She calls Me Father 122 

My Little Daughter's Welcome 123 

A Father's Dirge 124 

The Watches of the Night 128 

My Boy 135 

A Valentine to My Wife 133 

My Babe 135 

My Darling Little Mary 13*7 

The Mother's Pride 138 

The Font 139 

The Namesake 140 

On the Death of a Toung Sister 142 

MISCELLANEOUS 145 

To Charles Dickens 147 

Passing the Church 149 

The Best of Counsel 152 

To Gertrude 153 

Woman's Ministry , 155 

Walter Scott and Washington Irving 156 

The Bell Song 159 

My Childhood 110 

To Cordeha 172 

Alone 173 

The Difference 174 

The Pearl-Handled Knife 175 

The Battle of the Snakes 181 

Catching a Fox 186 

The Old Clock 188 

The Magic Eing 194 



CONTENTS. iii 

The Story of a Kiug 197 

What I would Like 200 

The People's Princes 202 

Twenty Years Ago 204 

The Influence of the Affections 205 

Song of the Toothache Imps 206 

The Wet Morning 207 

Life and Death 209 

Bootli 210 

Tlie Sum of Philosophy 212 

The Hero 213 

What should we Do, my Brother 215 

The Canary-Bird 216 

Young Napoleon at his Father's Grave 218 

New Year Thoughts 221 

A Hundred Years from Now 222 

Yanity of Yanities 224 

New Year Hymn 225 

Spring is Coming 226 

My Pretty Birds 227 

My Cap 228 

The Sun 230 

A Woman as She should Be 232 

Forget Me Not 232 



IMEMOIR OF JAMES NACK, 



BY 



QEORGE P. MORRIS. 



When genius of no common order is placed in conflict 
with circmnstances of peculiar difliculty, it presents a 
subject of interesting contemplation to those who take an 
interest in the philosophy of the human mind. Hence the 
career of James Nack has engaged the attention of more 
than one eminent writer. The elegant memoir of General 
Wetmore is familiar to all conversant with the literature 
of our country; and, in the present brief sketch, we shall, 
to a great extent, avail ourselves of his remarks, with a 
few additional particulars from other sources. 

James Nack is the son of a merchant of the city of New 
York, and was born on the fourth of January 1809. From 
his earliest years his attention to study and literature gave 
promise of future distinction. His first efforts in poetry 
were at so early an age, it might be said of him as of Pope, 

" He lisped in numbers, for the numbers came." 

But the fond expectations which his precocious talents 
naturally inspired among his friends and family, appeared 
to be suddenly destroyed by an accident, which might 
have been fatal to the development of genius loss innate, 
or faculties less enero-etic than those with which he was 



6 MEMOIU. 

endowed. He had scarcely attained his ninth year, when 
one day, as he was descending a flight of stairs with a 
little playmate in his arms, his foot slipped ; in his fall he 
caught at the nearest article, which happened to be a 
heavy fire-screen; this gave way, and descending npon 
his head, crushed and mangled it severely, depriving him 
of consciousness for several weeks, and of his hearing for 
ever. 

It is a natural consequence of a deprivation of hearing 
in early life, for the articulation to become gradually im- 
perfect for want of an ear to guide its pronunciation, and 
l^ACK has not entirely escaped this misfortune. Hence, 
though his speech is intelligible to those who have grown 
up with him, and become accustomed to its peculiarities, 
he prefers to carry on his intercourse with others in writ- 
ing. To many the loss of hearing at so early an age would 
have presented almost unconquerable difficulties in the 
pursuits of science and literature ; but familiar Avith books 
from his earliest years, the spirited boy only applied with 
the more diligence to his studies. The result may be given 
in the words of the late Samuel L. Knapp, who kncAV him 
intimately, and was well qualified by his own talents and 
attainments to appreciate those of his young friend. 

" His acquirements at this early age, in the languages 
and all the branches of knowledge, ordinary and extraor- 
dinary, are superior to those of any young man of the 
same age I ever met with. There is a strength and matu- 
rity about his mind rarely to be found in those who have 
experienced no such deprivation as he has been visited 
with. His criticisms have a sagacity and shrcAvdness un- 
equaled by those who were critics before he was born. 
He acquires a language with the most astonishing facility. 
Ko one I ever knew could do it with the same readiness, 



MEMOIR. 7 

except the late learned orientalist, George Betiiune Eng- 
lish. Nack unites in a degree truly astonishing, those two 
seemingly inconsistent qualities, restless?iess and 2^ersever- 
ance. He reads and writes, and does all things as though 
he had just breathed the Delphic vapor, and perseveres as 
though he were chained to the spot by some tahsmanic 
power. 

" In a few years our gifted author will find things chang- 
ing around him, and his youthftil labors will become the 
foundation stones of a goodly edifice, in the fashioning of 
which he has learned the skill of a literary architect, and 
acquired the strength to raise a temple of imperishable 
fame for his own and his country's glory." 

Such were the impressions and expectations that James 
Nack inspired in his boyhood, even in the veterans of 
literature ; and a boy of such extraordinary promise must 
have been remarkable under any circumstances. But when 
we consider the difiiculties he had to surmount, we must 
no less admire his energy and perseverance than his talents. 
As General Wetmore eloquently remarks, " had not James 
Nack been deeply imbued by nature with the vision and 
the faculty divine — had he not been impelled by an irre- 
sistible love and a feeling for his art, he never could have 
overcome the numerous and seemingly insurmountable 
difficulties which met him at every turn in the opening 
of his career. Cut off* in early youth from that familiar 
general mtercourse which sweetens the days of childhood 
and smoothes the path to knowledge, his sole rehance was 
on his own natural resources ; an intellect vigorous and 
clear, an imagination vivid and far-reaching, and a resolu- 
tion that could meet and subdue the irreparable calamity 
of his Hfe." 

On the publication of a volume of his poems, written 



8 MEMOIR. 

between the fourteenth and seventeenth years oi his age 
it was hailed with wonder and admiration. One of our 
leading reviews, in alluding to that volume, say^, " For 
precocity of talent and attainment under circumstances 
peculiarly unpropitious, James Nack is an intellectual 
wonder. As far as known, Christendom contains nothing 
comparable to him. All things considered, Chatterton did 
not equal him. He has written much, and many of his 
productions are of a high order ; all of them are marked 
with the rich and fervid outpourings of genius. For inten- 
sity and all that gives to poetry its highest character, they 
are certainly not surpassed, we think not equaled by any 
of the early productions of Lord Byro:n^, and those youthful 
productions of the noble bard have never received the 
commendations they merit. It is not too much to say of 
this gifted young American, that when matured by time 
and finished by labor, some of his future efforts in song 
may equal the happiest of those that have immortalized 
the author of Childe Harold." 

Among those who took an active interest in the young 
j)oet was a distinguished member of the New York Bar, 
who engaged hun in his office, and placed an extensive and 
well-selected library at his disposal. "This situation," 
says Colonel Knapp, " opened a new world to him. He 
reveled in fresh delights, devoured books upon poetry, 
history, philosophy, fiction, mathematics, politics, ethics, 
criticism, and theology. He wrote as well as read on 
many of these subjects ; formed a thousand theories, and 
tore them up root and branch for new creations." 

On the departure of this gentleman for Europe, young 
Nack formed an engagement with another of his early 
friends, Mr. Asten, at that time Clerk of the City and 
County of New York, who had been among the first to 



IMEMOIIl. 9 

notice and appreciate his abilities. He soon mastered the 
intricacies of the various duties required of him ; and the 
manner in which he has fulfilled them has been well de- 
scribed by General Wetmore : " The dry details of legal 
papers, the monotonous toil of searching the musty records 
of the courts, however uncongenial to the poetic tempera- 
ment, have no power to turn him from the path of duty. 
lie enters thoroughly into the spirit of his various labors, 
and discharges them with a zeal and ability which proba- 
bly few could equal, and wdiich has secured for him not 
only the confidence of his successive employers, but the 
warm regard and esteem of the members of the Bar." 

In the early part of the year 1838, Mr. ISTack was united 
to a young lady to whom he had been attached almost 
from her childhood ; and who, it would appear, from more 
than one beautiful tribute to her worth, which may rank 
among the happiest efforts of his pen, must have been 
every way worthy of his choice. 

The poetry of James Nack is characterized by a versifi- 
cation remarkably flowing, easy, and musical — an unaffected 
and felicitous diction — and a depth and tenderness of feel- 
ing for which he may be eminently considered the poet of 
the affections. 

His personal qualities could not be more accurately de- 
scribed than in the words of General Wetmore : " Mr. 
Nack's habits are regular and retired. The domestic 
attractions of home have a greater charm for him than the 
allurements of the world. The amusements and excite- 
ments of society can rarely win him from his books or his 
desk. He is averse to mixed company, reserved in the 
presence of strangers, but familiar and playful in the circle 
of his select friends ; of strong passions ; quick to resent, 

but quicker to forgive ; prone to act upon the the impulse 
1* 



10 MEMOIE. 

of the moment ; of a disposition gentle, generous, and sin- 
cere. He is fond of children, and successful in engaging 
their affections. With such qualities of mind and heart, 
it is not surprising that he secures the Avarm regard of 
those who have the happiness of his acquamtance, nor that 
he is most esteemed by those who know him best." 

In conclusion, the writer cannot forbear availing himself 
of this opportunity to express his own high appreciation 
of the worth and genius of one whom it has for many years 
been his privilege to number among his most intunate and 
most esteemed friends. 

Geo. p. Moeeis. 



I 



ROMANCE OF THE RING. 



ROMANCE OF THE RING. 



PART FIRST. 

All night he rode till the break of day, 

Nor paused he at any place ; 
The red blood ran on his booted heel, 

And the white foam flew in his face ; 
The sides of his courser heaved amain, 

The sides of his coal-black steed, 
And the sweat ran down, and the smoke curled up 

Yet slackened he not his speed. 
The horse and the rider, away, away ! 

Shot on like the arrow's whirr, 
TiU the hand no longer could hold the rein, 

Nor the heel could plunge the spur ; 
His limbs all droop'd Uke a dead man's limbs. 

But his steed did not pause at all : 
Away, away ! was the rider whirled — 

'T was wondrous he did not tall ! 
His finger was girt by a little ring 1 

He look'd upon it by chance, 



14 THE EOMANCE OF THE Exx.o.. 

And, with a cry you might hear afar, 

He sjDrang from his drowsy trance ; 
He seized the reins — from his courser's flanks 

Hot blood o'er the rowels splash'd ; 
" Away ! away ! " he shouted aloud, 

And away, and away, he dash'd. 
Away, and away, for many an hour, 

He darted, for many a mile ; 
The courser smok'd as all on a flame. 

And the blood in his veins did boil. 
Away, away ! still he dashes on. 

As a sinner would fly from death. 
Till the courser's bounds grew less and less. 

And he labors to heave a breath ; 
" Away ! away ! " still the cavalier cried. 

Still spurring the coal-black steed ; 
But the shout too famt, and the gore-clogg'd spurs, 

Too blunt to provoke his speed. 
Yet onward he toil'd, till a broad deep stream 

On a sudden check'd the path : 
The cavalier sj^rung from the steed to the ground. 

And he stamp'd on the ground in wrath ; 
He stamp'd on the ground, and he beat his brow, — 

One glance at the ring he cast : 
Oh ! then might it seem o'er his features fierce 

The scowl of a demon past ! 
Again on his coal-black steed he sprung. 

And never a word he said. 



THE ROMANCE OF THE EING. 15 

But the sweat from his courser's mane he wrung, 

And patted his bending head ; 
The courser neigh'd — with a sudden bound 

His rider through air he bore : 
He shot to the other side of the stream, 

Then fell to arise no more. 



PART SECOND. 

The little blades of the tender grass 

The ground in soft verdure hide. 
And the leafy boughs of clusteruig trees 

Are nodding on every side ; 
And on every bough of every tree 

The birds in bright plumage glance. 
While to the beat of their tiny feet, 

The leaves all around them dance. 
And every bird doth most sweetly sing. 

And right blithsome is their song. 
And the breeze attempers its voice with theirs. 

As softly it steals along ; 
But a sweeter sound than the song of bird. 

Or the murmur of passing air — 
Oh ! a sweeter song by far may be heard — 

'T is the voice of a lady fair. 
That lady is fair as lady may be. 

Too fair for tliis world of ours j 



16 THE ROMA]S"CE OF THE T.ING. 

As a blessed vision she might appear, 

.Come down from the heavenly bowers. 
A young boy near her, holds by the rein 

A palfrey as white as snow. 
For never a speck of other hue 

On a hair of his can you show. 
His mane is long as a lion's mane. 

His tail to the ground is rolled ; 
And he is bedight in caparisons rich, 

All gemmed with silver and gold. 
The lady signs, and the little page hastes 

With the palfrey to her side ; 
She lays her hand on the palfrey's neck, 

As if she would mount and ride ; 
But there is a rustle among the leaves — 

She pauses to know whence it be, 
And a man comes forth, and reels to her feet, 

And kneels him down on his knee — 
He kneels him down on his knee, and signs 

The sign of the cross on his breast. 
While the lady scanneth his form and face, 

And the garb in which he is drest. 
His form seems faint as a helpless babe's. 

Yet in sooth 't is a noble one ; 
His face drops sweat, as the sky drops rain, 

And is red as the setting sun. 
His garb is rich, but in many a place 

Is rent, as in furious toil ; 



THE EOMANCE OF THE EING. 17 

He is booted and spurred as should cavalier be, 

And his heels have a bloody soil. 
The stranger's bosom heaveth amain, 

As he kneels to the damsel fair ; 
His lips are too parch'd to shape a word. 

And he hath not a breath to spare. 
" O stranger, what art thou ? and why art thou here ? 

And why dost thou kneel on thy knee ? 
Arise from thy knee, and stand on thy feet. 

And teU me what wouldst thou with me ? " 
Again the stranger essay' d to speak. 

But essay'd to speak in vain. 
For his lips were parched as the lips of death, 

And his breath still heaved amain : 
He sprang to his feet, he stamped on the ground, 

And his teeth in fury gnashed. 
And he bit his lip till the blood trickled down. 

And his eyes like a demon's flashed : 
And he laid his hand on the palfrey white. 

As if upon it to spring ; 
The lady's eye to his finger he turned, 

Which was girt with a little ring ; 
He pointed then to the bloody spurs, 

And then to a distant way. 
And then again to the palfrey white, 

But never a word could he say. 
" Beshrew thy meaning," the lady said, 

" Art thou such an ungallant knight, 



18 THE EO^IANCE OF THE KING. 

A lady must tread on a weary foot, 

While thou ridest her palfrey white ? " 
He put his hand to his girdle then, 

And a heavy purse he drew. 
And that heavy purse all filled with gold, 

To the lady's page he threw ; 
And a golden chain, with a diamond bright. 

He tore from his breast in haste. 
And that chain of gold, and that jewel rich, 

In the lady's hand he placed. 
Then to the palfrey he turned again ; 

But his arm the lady caught : 
" Nay, keep thy jewels, and keep thy gold, 

The palfrey is thine unbought ; 
And I would for thy sake, thou Aveary knight, 

I could give thee a braver steed ; 
But here thou must take thy rest awhile, 

For rest thou surely dost need. " 
No word he said, but he shook his head. 

And again he pointed away ; 
But she held him the faster by the arm — 

" Now thou shalt not say me nay!" 
She looked in his face with her eyes so blue. 

So beautiful, and so soft, 
And the stranger felt his dark eyes melt, 

As they had not melted oft. 
A light breeze played, and her coal-black curls 

Were wafted against his cheek. 



THE ROMANCE OF THE EING. 19 

And the delicate touch thrilled his every vein, 

And rendered his purpose weak ; 
But when she leaned her head, and he felt 

Her cheek imparting its glow 
To his own, and her breath to blend with his 

Was sent in a rosy flow, 
"What wonder that by her charms, such sway 

In that moment was o'er him won, 
That could he have spoken, he could but say, 

" Sweet lady, thy will be done !" 
Upon a soft bed of thornless flowers. 

The lady bade him recline. 
And the little page went at her sign, and brought 

In each hand a goblet of wine. 
*' Now pledge me, sir knight," said the lady flnr, 

And he raised the brim to his lip; 
But he suddenly dashed his cup to the ground. 

As hers she began to sip ; 
For the little ring which liis finger girt, 

Again attracted his eye. 
And he started np from the bed of flowers. 

With a loud and fearful cry ; 
She seized his arm, he flung her away — 

He sprung on the palfrey white. 
And, like the lightnhig's vanishing flash, 

He shot from the lady's sight. 



20 THE EOMANCE OF THE RING. 



PART THIRD. 

The moon is throned in the lovely blue, 

Which melting upon the eye, 
Allures the wish to be ushered there, 

Reclined in its depths to lie • 
As yet one visible star alone 

The azure realm divides, 
Which burns with a bright, though trembling light. 

As before its queen it glides ; 
On the dew-gemm'd leaves, on the placid waves. 

The showering moon-beams play — 
A beauty floats o'er all earth and sky, 

That would shame the glory of day. 
But there cannot be a thing of life 

Beholding this lovely scene, 
Or its very breath could now be heard 

Disturbing the silence serene. 
But see ; yon river, so calm till now, 

Is stirred, but not by the gale ; 
And gliding slowly towards the shore 

Some object appears to sail; 
But what can it be ? to the distant eye. 

Which a glance upon it would throw, 
'T would seem the image of yon pale cloud, 

Or a drifting heap of snow. 



THE ROMANCE OF THE RrN'G. 21 

It sinks, it rises, it floats along 

Till upon the shore 't is thrown, 
And there it lies, as immovable 

As a thing to life unkno^vn. 
Now all is calm, till from yonder wood 

A cavalier suddenly starts. 
On a steed, which despite his voice and rein, 

Right on to the river darts ; 
But he suddenly paused as motionless, 

As he had no power to stir, 
N^or even to breathe, nor seemed he to feel 

The plunge of his rider's spur. 
The cavalier thought he heard a sigh ; 

He eagerly looked around ; 
On a human form he cast his eye 

He hastily sprung to the ground : 
He raised the form, and he threw aside 

The folds of the snow-white veil. 
And the moonlight flowed, m a silver tide, 

On features lovely and pale. 
The cavalier starting dropped the form. 

As the features met his sight, 
'Twas the very lady from whom, but now, 

He had taken the palfrey white ; 
But again he raised her in his arms, 

And he laid her upon his breast ; 
He wrung the brine from her coal-black hnir 

And his lips to hers he prest 



22 THE ROMANCE OF THE EING. 

There was no warmth, nor a sign of life, 

But upon those Hps alone ; 
And perhaps the warmth those lips bestowed, 

They but received from his OTvai. 
In vain he sought to recall her to life ; 

So, that some aid he might find, 
Upon the palfrey he laid her form, 

And he mounted himself behind. 
The steed, which had almost breathless stood, 

Neigh' d with a terrible sound : 
With the knight and the lady into the waves 

He dash'd, with a headlong bound. 
The cavalier's efforts little avail'd 

The maid or himself to sustain — 
The waves closed o'er him, and gushed in his ears, 

And whirled his bewildered brain. 
He raised his head, and opened his eye, 

How strange was the scene he met : 
He lay in a lordly hall unharm'd, 

Nor one spot of his robe was wet, 
In the midst of the hall he saw a throne. 

With a sceptre and diadem ; 
A lady entered, shrined in a veil. 

Which burn'd with many a gem — 
She took the cavalier by the hand, 

And aside she flung her veil ; 
Fair as the blush of morn was the cheek, 

Which late he had seen so pale ; 



THE ROMAJsCE OF THE EING. 23 

And her raven ringlets down lier neck 

In wild luxuriance danced, 
And her eyes — her sweet blue eyes — on his 

In melting tenderness glanced. 
She led him toward the throne, and sign'd 

As there he should take his seat ; 
But he waved his hand, and shook his head, 

And kneel' d hun down at her feet ; 
And as he knelt, emotions he felt 

Which were far too sweet to speak ; 
Till, glancing his eye toward his hand. 

He started up with a shriek : 
" Lady, lady, detain me not ! 

For a deed is to be done ; 
In beauty's cause must this sword be draAvn 

By the dawn of to-morrow's sun ! " 
" In beauty's cause ? I fear me, sir knight. 

For beauty small is thy care ; 
And little, methinks, thy courtesy. 

If thou wilt not hear my prayer. 
Now hear me, sir knight, by royal birthright 

A wide dominion I sway, 
But a bold usurper has risen m might. 

To make my kingdom his i^rey. 
Sir knight, I am a defenceless maid. 

And well I may wish to call 
A knight so noble and brave as tliou, 

Friend, champion, lover, and all ! 



24 THE E0MA:N'CE OF THE EING. 

Yes, lover^ sir knight, for wonldst thou but stay 

Till to-morrow, and meet my foe, 
My heart, my hand, my kingdom, my all, 

As thy guerdon would I bestow ! " 
She threw her white arms around his knees, 

As she knelt at the cavalier's feet ; 
And she looked in his face — he could ill resist 

That look so imploring and sweet ! 
But he cast one glance upon his ring, 

And her clasp he then unbound ; 
And he said — but with a faltering voice — 

As he raised her from the ground — 
" This moment I must hasten away, 

In the cause of my lady love ; 
But when her rescue shall be achieved. 

So bless me the saints above. 
As I shall return, with all speed I may. 

This arm to devote for thee ; 
I swear me thy friend and thy chamj^ion. 

Though thy lover I may not be ! " 
" One moment, sir knight, let me know the claim 

Of her who calls thee away; 
If that claim is just, I will pardon thee, 

" ISTor longer demand thy stay." 
The knight was impatient to be gone. 

But was checked by lier tender hold. 
And he had not the heart to spurn her off, 

So briefly his tale he told. 



THE llOMANOE OF THE EING. 25 

PART FOURTH. 
THE cavalier's TALE. 

I LOVED, and was belov'd the same : 

Her young heart had not learn' d 
The world's dissembling forms ; her flame 

Pure and unhidden burned : 
But noticed by her father's eye, 

It soon alarmed his pride : 
For his were birth and grandeur high. 

Which fate to me denied. 
Compelled to part, with broken heart, 

I rush'd the war to seek ; 
But first we both exchanged an oath. 

The dearest love could speak. 
The ring, which girds my finger now, 

I bade her cherish ever. 
As a memorial of our vow. 

To love and love forever. 
I sought the field, I forced to yield 

Full many a Paynim foe ; 
Methinks her prayers have been my shield ; 

No arm could lay me low. 
And now I had returned in fame 

My native land to hail, 
When there a page to meet me came, 

Who told a fearful tale ; 

2 



26 THE ROMANCE OF THE lllNG, 

The every word convulsed my frame, 

My cheek turned ashy pale. 
He told me that my true-love dear 

"Was left an orphan maid, 
Beneath a guardian's care severe. 

Who dared her rights invade ; 
Who with iisurj^ing grasp detained 

Her father's gold and land ; 
Nor his presumj^tion there restrained. 

But dared to claim her hand ; 
And e'en had sworn, if by her scorn 

His suit were still denied. 
Upon the third return of morn 

Should ruder means he tried. 
To-morrow is the destin'd day, 

But we ere then shall meet : 
I trust this arm the wretch shall lay 

Before my lady's feet. 
To shield her from his brutal rage, 

The arm of love to bring, 
She sent in haste her faithful page. 

To seek me with this rino; — 
The ring, which when our vows were made, 

I on her finger placed : 
But, lady, I'm too long delay'd — 

To save her I must haste ! 
But for her sake, thou lady bright, 

!My heart would own thy spell ; 



THE EOMANCE OF THE EING. 27 

But for her sake I could not slight 

Thy charms angelical ; 
But for her sake, not thus I might, 

Have power to say, farewell ! 



PART FIFTH. 

One moment the cavalier waits reply. 

On his ear no answer falls ; 
He looks around, and amazed he stands 

By his lady's castle walls. 
He looked around, but he looked in vain 

For the lovely stranger-queen ; 
Again his gaze he fixed in amaze. 

On the unexpected scene ; 
And as he looked on the well-known towers. 

On his mind recollections rushed 
Of his childhood bliss, and his boyhood love, 

Till the tears unbidden gushed : 
But he swept the glimmermg from his eye. 

And looking to heaven he said, 
" Saint Mary be thank'd, by whatever means 

So sudden the space has fled, 
Which parted me from my lady's foe ; 

Saint Mary, arm me this morn ! " 
His sword clash'd on the vibrating shield, 
And loudly he blew the horn. 



28 THE EOMAT^CE OF THE HINQ, 

Every portal expanded wide, 

But he saw no mortal near ; 
Onward he strode from hall to hall, 

But he found no foe appear. 
Onward he strode, till checked by a gate, 

Which was locked and barred as yet ; 
As it yielded to liis gauntlet's stroke. 

A throng he suddenly met ; 
They rushed upon him, he knew not whence ; 

But from their rude grasp he sprung 
"With such violent force, that by the shock 

They all to the ground were flung. 
Again they rose, and on every side 

Their weapons the knight assailed. 
He fought full well, and he fought full long, 

But at last his foes prevailed : 
Still, though by their numbers overpowered. 

He struggled as best he could. 
Till the ring from his finger dropped to earth, 

And all in amazement stood ; 
For the ring, expanding, girt the hall 

In a circle of burning flame. 
And contracting, around the cavalier's foes, 

Nearer and nearer it came. 
Till all w^ere withered in its embrace. 

But harmless it pass'd the knight : 
In a moment, the ring, and a heap of dust, 

Alone remain' d to his sight. 



THE EOMANCE OF THE EIKG. 29 

The ring on his finger he replaced, 

And he found his strength regained 
That moment ; again from hall to hall, 

Uninjured and unrestrained, 
He past, till again his onward way 

Was checked by a massy gate ; 
In vain his efforts to burst the lock, 

Or shake one bar of the grate ; 
A laugh of derision shook the walls : 

Through the bars he could see appear 
A being of lofty size, whose lip 

"Was curled with a fiend-like sneer, 
As he pointed to a lady pale, 

Who lifeless lay at his feet : 
The cavalier struggled with frantic rage, 

Impatient the wretch to meet ; 
But he raged in vain, till he thought he heard 

The musical whispering 
Of a sweet tender voice, which said, 

" Now bethink thee of thy ring ! " 
Obeying the voice, he instantly 

The ring from his finger drew ; 
Again expanding, its fiery wreath 

O'er the massy bars it threw : 
They dropp'd to the ground like molten lead ; 

Onward rushed the eager knight. 
But he found not the lady nor his foe, 

Who had borne her from his sight. 



30 THE EOMAKCE OF THE EING. 

The little ring he snatched from the ground 

And on his finger replaced, 
He clash'd his shield again and agam, 

Till the foe stepped forth in haste ; 
One scowl they exchanged, but paused not for speech. 

At the clash of each mighty stroke 
Their weapons quivered, until at last 

The sword of the cavalier broke ; 
He flung it aside, he seized his foe, 

As to grapple his life away ; 
They struggled as every nerve w^ould burst, 

Till sinking together, they 
Exhausted upon the ground reclined, 

Yet strugglmg in vain to rise ; 
And oft as their glances met, the rage 

Of a demon flashed in their eyes. 
Hark ! O hark ! it seems that all earth 

Upon its foundation rocks. 
While ten thousand thunders tear the skies 

In loud and repeated shocks. 
The tottering roof, the falling walls, 

The knight and the foe behold ; 
But each still writhes in the other's arms. 

Which grasj) him in desperate fold. 
The roof now bursts with an awful crash, 

And before their shuddering eye 
Aj^peared unfolded a sheet of fire, 

Enwrapping all earth and sky ! 



THE ROMAT^CE OF THE RING. 31 

A shriek was heard — the loftiest tower 

That moment in ruin crashed, 
And disclosed a maid, who stood on high, 

Where destruction around her flashed ; 
Her white robes dishevelled o'er her hung, 

And waved in the blazing air. 
Which danced around her shuddermg limbs. 

And wreath' d m her raven hair. 
The cavalier would have rushed to her aid, 

But he could not burst the grasp 
Of his foe, which so closely pressed him now. 

That he scarce had power to gasp. 
The cavalier raged at the savage grin. 

And the glance of malicious scorn ; 
But the more his rage, the more the mirth 

On the hated features worn. 
" Now by this ring," said the cavalier, 

" If near me be any power 
Propitious to faithful love Uke mine, 

Its favor I claim this hour." 
Instantly in a whirlwind of flame 

The ground was asunder rent. 
And shriekmg down the burning abyss 

His foe from his sight was sent. 
The knight look'd up where the lady stood ; 

A tower trembled o'er her head ; 
The scorching flame and the smothering smoke, 

More thickly around her spread ; 



32 THE EOMANCE OF THE KING. 

The ruins rolled from liis climbing foot, 

As he rnsh'd through the smoke and blaze : 
In a moment the lady sunk in his arms, 

Shrieking with fear and amaze. 
He looks below, but the awful depth 

Forbids the desperate spring. 
Nor can he on the ruins descend, 

"While his arms to the lady cling. 
He looks above, O merciful heaven ! 

The tower now bends to its fall ! 
The knight in despair, could scarce breathe a prayer, 

On the guardian power to call. 
He heard a crash — he averted his eye — 

Nearer he drew to his breast 
The lady, as he said, " We must die, 

But dying with thee I am blest ! " 



PART SIXTH. 

The knight looked around — ^he could ill expect 

Such a scene would his eye await : 
Unharmed the lady lay at his feet. 

By his father's castle-gate. 
The vassals clasped his knees, and his name 

Repeated in shouts of joy; 
And forth the old warrior tottering came 

To welcome his gallant boy. 



THE ROMANCE OF THE RING. 33 

As soon as the cavalier was released 

From, the fond paternal embrace, 
He raised the lady, who lay at his feet, 

And eagerly looked in her face ; 
He started away, he clenched his hands, 

He gnashed his teeth in despair ; 
" Is it thou I have saved from those fatal towers — 

While she — has she perish'd there ? " 
She opened her eyes, she sprung to his neck — 

" My love, and art thou restored ? 
The dangers I 've met, I shall not regret. 

Since redeemed by my true-love's sword." 
Such voice, such look, he had heard and seen 

In the joy of his youthful day; 
But the features are those of the stranger-queen, 

Who tempted hun on his way. 
He looks again, and he cannot tell 

If it be his true-love or not ; 
For, i^erhaps in his absence, some trait of hers 

Might either be changed or forgot. 
Raismg his eye, he saw on the sky 

A halo of dazzling light, 
And m a car, with many a star. 

Bespangled, a being bright 
Was seen to glide, till it paused beside 

The wondering lady and knight. 
From her dazzling face, when it hover' d near, 

They hid their eyes on the ground : 

2* 



34 THE EOMANCE OF THE EING. 

Her accents floated into their ear, 

In soft and musical sound : 
" Arise, sir knight, she bids thee arise, 

Who has well approved thy worth ; 
Arise, fair maid, she bids thee arise, 

"Who has loved thee from thy birth. 
Nay, lady, shun not my presence thus. 

As it threatened danger nigh ; 
Thy dearest welcome I should command, 

Thy Guardian Genius am I. 
From thy earliest hour it has been my care 

To shield thee from every ill. 
And my guardian wing shall o'ershadow thee 

To thy latest moment still. 

Sir knight, 't was I who the token brought 
To tell thee thy lady's need ; 

'T was I who wing'd thy hnpetuous flight 

Upon an unearthly steed ; 
'T was I who assumed this lady's charms. 

The fairest that can be worn. 
Surpassing all by thy memory sketch'd 

Of the dawn of her beauty's morn ; 
And thus I met thee in beauty's bower. 

And in regal grandeur's hall. 
Where the smile of love, nor ambition's power. 

Thy heart could change or inthrall. 
Through many perils hast thou been led. 

But thy soul its strength approved ; 



THE ROMAlSrCE OF THE EING. 35 

Many temptations around thee spread, 

But thy faith was still unmoved. 
Thine is a heart that can never be 

Estranged from constancy's reign, 
And to such a heart the hand is due 

Which else thou shouldst ne'er obtain. 
Here is the ring, restore it, sir knight. 

To the hand I now link to thine ; 
Of your heart's dearest oath, let it be to you both 

For ever and ever the sign. 
The ring was to thee a talisman 

To save thee all danger through ; 
This ring on thy hand, and truth in thy soul, 

No evil could thee subdue. 
And should the spell from the ring depart, 

When danger again is known. 
Little the need of thy faithful heart 

For other aid than its own. 
Ye faithful pair, it shall be my care 

That blessings shall both await ; 
But if at times ye are doomed to bear 

The scowl of a darker fate. 
Ye still may triumph o'er its control. 

If ye still to each other cling ; 
For evil can never enslave the soul 
Encircled by Constancy's Ring. 



THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 
A DRAMA. 

IN THREE ACTS. 



Who sins against anotlier 
Sins most apiainst himself. 



DRAMATIS PERSON^E. 

The Straxger. 
Count Ernaldo. 
Reginald. 
The Prince. 
Manuel. 

Theresa. 
Isabelle. 
Julia. 



Scene — ^^jxt in. Time — Tweri ty-four Hours, 



THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 



ACT I. 

Scene 1. — A neglected path^ leading to the ruins of a 

castle. 

Miter Theeesa with Manuel approaching the ruins. 

Thekesa. Lean on my arm. 

Manuel. Nay ! I can go no further. 

Here let us rest a moment. 

yriirowing himself languidly xipon the ground. 

Theresa. Sweetest rest 

Descend upon tliee ! — never mayst thou know 
The weariness of heart. \Advancing to the ruins. 

Ah ! here indeed 
Should be our resting-place. But all is changed ! 
Are these my halls of pride ? is this my home 
Of joy? the home of desolation now 
And ruin ; here the sole inhabitants, 
As in my bosom ! Hail ! ye fallen towers ! 



40 THE SPIRIT OF VE:N^GEAKCE, 

Hail ! image of my fortunes ! in your look 
Is silent sympathy ! A thousand welcomes — 
If ye could but restore him, at whose side 
Smilmg I last api3roached you, never more 
To smile again ; — but ye are now no place 
For him, who as my jealous ear informed me, 
Resuming rank and fortune, glads his pride, 
Forgetting the forsaken. Yet once more, 
Ye cherished halls, ^vl\l I traverse the scenes 
Of happiness departed. Come, my child. 
To thy inheritance! 

Manuel. [Starting up as if from sleep?^ What says 
my mother ? 

Theresa. These ruins may afford a safer shelter 
To thy repose. 

Mantjel, Watched by a mother's eye 

Is safety everywhere. \Exeunt. 

Scene 2. — A room in the castle rudely fitted up as a 
herinlta(je ; a dim lamp on the table. The hacTc- 
ground is in complete darhiess. 

Enter Tiieeesa and Manuel. 

Theresa. At last we have tracked the light ; but even 
here 
Is desolation's home, or — Heaven forbid — 
Perhaps the den of guilt. 



THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 41 

Manuel. Guilt dwells not here : — 

Behold that type of hecaven I 

[Poi7iti?ig to a crucifix o?i the table. 

Theresa. Some anchorite 

Has centered here his world. Would he w^erc present ; 
But surely he will pardon to a mother 
The Hberty her child's relief compels. 
Here, rest thee on this pallet. 

Manuel. I will pray first 

As at my own dear home, — would we were there : — 
My Heavenly Father ! bless my dearest mother, 
And bless my earthly father and restore him 
To her and me. 

[A dark figure emerges from the gloom, glides to 
the child^ and exclaims, Rise ! 

Theresa. Heaven defend my child ! 

Stranger. Is that thy mother, boy ? 

Manuel. Yes — do not harm her. 

Stranger. Didst thou not call upon her, and thy father, 
His blessing whom I must not name ? 

Manuel. His blessuig 

Abide upon us all. 

Stranger. A goodly jest ! 

Hell hears and shouts derision ! What! His blessing 
On me ! — Perdition ! that a foolish babe 
Should mock me thus ! 

Theresa. Mercy, thou terrible man ! 

Stranger. Man! 



42 TnE SPIEIT OF VENGEANCE. 

Theeesa. Atv^uI being, whatsoe'er thou art, 

Give me my child, and let us go in peace. 

Stranger. And where is peace ? — No matter, — 't is no 
place 
For me. Come hither, boy. 

Manuel. Oh ! save me, mother. 

His eyes are burning fire ! 

Stranger. Thou dost not know 

The evil from the good, or thou wouldst cling 
To me, not her. She save thee ? I can save thee 
From many a curse that she may else be thanked for. 
Fool ! never bless thy parents, — they of all 
Have cursed thee most ; — thou hast not words to answer 
Their curse, but I will help thee. Come, I '11 teach thee 
A proper orison. 

Theresa. ^Ye must not hear 

Such words. Come, we must hence. 

Stranger. Thou trembling fool. 

What power can bear you hence against my will ? 
Stir, if you can. 

Theresa. Be thou of earth or hell ! 

Stranger. Say that thou fearest me not. 

Theresa. I cannot say it. 

For terrible thou art. Yet in my soul 
Is something holy that should awe thee, — yes. 
Shall awe thee. 

Stranger. Name this wonder, and if heaven 

And earth shake at the sound — I — I shall smile. 



THE SPIKIT OF VENGEANCE. 43 

Theresa. A mother's love ! 

Stranger. A fable, a fair word, 

Repeated for the beauty of its music, 
And not its truth. There never was a mother, 
Howe'er she romanced of a mother's love. 
Would do the only deed that should express it. 

Theresa. I would — Heaven knows I would ! 

Straxger. But I know better. 

How beautiful thy child — how sweet his face 
Of eloquent persuasion ! purity 
His brow has moulded of the snows of heaven. 
Which even aifection, with her lij)s of fire, 
Trembles to touch, lest it should melt. 

Theresa. Thy voice 

Is music now. 

Stranger. A spirit not of earth, 

Insj^hered in the dark beauty of his eyes. 
Beams glorious as the angel in the sun. 

Theresa. Say on — my ear will never tire. 

Stranger. [ Catching Manuel m his arms^ Fair boy — 
Nay, struggle not — I have no will to harm thee. 
Little my kindness to the sons of men. 
Yet there is something in tliy innocent face 
Sways me beyond my wont. I '11 render thee 
The best of blessings, better, better far 
Than parents ever give. 

Theresa. And that is — 

Stranger. Death ! [Aiming a dagger at the child. 



44 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 

Theresa. Death! Shield us heavenly Father! spare, 
oh spare him ! 
Kill tne — I care not — hut my child ! my child ! 
Let him but live, and I will kiss the dagger 
That drmks my life-blood. 

Manuel. I will die first, mother ! 

Stkanger. Behold a mother's love ! Thou bidst him 
live? 

Theresa. Oh yes ! 

Stranger. So be it then ; and I disclaun 

The moment's mercy that was as a rij^ple 
On ocean's stilled infinitude ; all sinks 
Again to a stern deadness. Far from me 
Be it to snatch a mortal from the curse 
Of life. 

Theresa. My child, my love, again I have 

thee! 

Stranger. Now for a parent's part. 

[^Snatching the hoy again, 

Theresa. Forbear! forbear! 

Wouldst thou recall thy mercy ? 

Stranger. 'T was recalled 

When I forbore to strike. Thou bidst him live — 
Well, so do I, — ^but if it be in love 
Better by far were hate. Live, boy, yes, live ! 
But to what end ? To forfeit innocence. 
The sunlight of thy soul, which thou must bury 
In darkness, crushing darkness! Live! for what? 



THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 45 

To have the roses of thy young affections 
Devoured by adders, gnawing through thy heart 
A path for desolation. — Live ! for what ? 
To toil, to w^eej), to groan, — to kiss the rod 
Thou canst not fly nor brave, and scarce canst bear ; 
To find in all that by the name of joy 
Provokes thy toilsome chase, a tiresome curse 
That better had been fled — the milk of kindness 
Turn into gall and bitterness — abhor 
All that surrounds thee ! — and thyself the most ! 
Live — wish for death — yet live, and dare not die, 
Held back by cow^ard conscience. Live for this ! 
'T is all that mortals live for ! , 

Manuel. Better die ! 

Theresa. And leave thy mother ? 

Manuel. No — for thy dear sake 

AUke to me were welcome life or death. 

Steangee. I tell thee, woman, thou art most unworthy 
The fondness of this fool, or thou Avouldst rather 
Guide than withhold my arm against his life — 
For were he now to die, canst thou believe 
But that his sinless spirit, bursting forth 
On cherub wings, would rush to the abode 
Of bliss eternal, which, continuing here. 
He may forever forfeit? 

Theeesa. God of mercy ! 

Save me from madness ! close my ear agamst 
Such horrible suggestions. 



46 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 

Stranger. Mark me, woman ! 

Be what I may, I once have been a child, 
As innocent and blest as now is thme. 
As near as he to heaven. What am I now ! — 
Oh then why died I not ! — why came not then 
Some pitying angel, from a world to snatch me 
Where only guilt and horror lay before me ! — 
Why dost thou weep ? 

Manuel. For thee ! 

Yllie Stranger turns away in deep agitation, 

Theresa. Oh may those tears, 

Like dews of heaven descending on his heart, 
Melt it to penitence that heralds peace ! 

Manuel. Poor man, we '11 pray for thee. 

Stranger. The angelic host 

Might kneel in vain — the eternal doom is fixed — 
So be it — I will bear. — But thou, sweet boy. 
Thou who hast wept for me Avho never claimed 
A tear, — I must reward thee. [ Offering to stah him. 

Theresa. Help ! oh God ! 

Mercy — my child — oh spare him ! 

[Reginald enters xoith his sioord drawn^ snatches 
the child^ and restores him to Theresa. 

Reginald. Hither turn 

Thy weajDon — but perhaps thy coward arm 
Copes but with babes and women. 

Stranger. Calm thee, youth ; 

My war is with the soul. 



I 



THE SPIRIT OF VEI^GEANCE. 41 

Manuel. [To Kegixald.] Xay, gentle sir, 
We pray thee harm hun not. 

Theresa. We but huplore thee 

To bear us hence m safety. 

Kegixald. AYe again 

Must meet. I '11 find thee here ? 

Stranger. I shall be found 

Where least thou canst expect. — It may be, child, 
We shall not meet again. Thou Avilt remember 
This hour, and glory in thy moment's power 
To soften adamant ; but pray forget not 
It was but for a moment. I am now 
Myself again, and hating thee, as all 
Mankind, I say ahke to them and thee — 
Live, and my curse upon you ! 

Theresa. Let us fly I 

Regix'ald. Lady, where wouldst thou go ? 

Theresa. To Count Ernaldo. 

Regixald. [Startln(/J] Ernaldo ! 

Stranger. Hell! Ernaldo! — let me sec — 

It is — I did not think another drop 
Could fall on my black ocean — yes, that face 
Though changed, is not forgotten. Didst thou say 
Ernaldo ? Tell me what thou art to him ? 

Theresa. His wife. 

Stranger. And this ? 

Theresa. His child. 

Stranger. And I have cursed him 



48 THE SPIKIT OF VENGEAT^CE. 

Reginald. I know Ernalclo Avell, the best of men ; 
His wife has long been dead. 

Theresa. Alas, thy words 

Confirm my fears ; I have been so forgotten 
That he could wed another. 

STEAJfGEE. Didst thou call him 

The best of men ? I 've done him much injustice 
If he deserves that name. 

Reginald. He well deserves it, 

For by him, though a stranger to his blood. 
Have I been reared from earliest infancy 
^Yith all a father's care. 

Strangek. Hadst thou no claim 

Upon it ? 

Reginald. JSTone. 

Stranger. Thy kindred ? 

Reginald. They have never 

Been known to him. 

Stranger. Nor thee ? 

Reginald. Thou hast no rio-lit 

To question me. 

Stranger. A stranger — even his kindred 

TJnknoAvn — Ernaldo generous — I know better — 
Those lineaments, and even that voice — t 'is so — 
It must be so — yet what shall that avail me — 
Oh glorious thought ! the heaven of my revenge 
Oi3ens at last before me ! 

Reginald. With your pleasure, 



THE SPIEIT OF VENGEANCE. 49 

Lady, 't were best to go. These are but ravings 
Not worth our hearing. Come. 

Steanger. Against my will 

You cannot. 

Reginald, That 's to prove. 

Straxger. One moment, lady, 

Then, if thou wilt, depart. 

[lie discovers his face to Theresa, iv/to shric/cs 
and falls insensihle. 

Reginald. What hast thou done ? 

Manuel. My mother ! oh, my mother ! 

Reginald. Hush ! she lives. 

Theresa. Where is he ? 

Stranger. Here, Theresa. N'ay, be calm. 

Breathe not my name, not even to thy child. 
My friend, excuse the hint, but we can spare 
Your further company. 

Theresa. Kind sir, forgive 

The trouble we have given you. Leave lis with him. 

Manuel. But mother, art thou safe ? 

Stranger. Before Ave part, 

I charge thee never to inform Ernaldo 
What thou hast witnessed. 

Reginald. Why should his wife and child 

Be kept from him ? 

Stranger. ^/s wife and child ? — Ah, yes! 

Thou speakest of tJiese ? Far be it from my purpose ! 

I shall myself at the expedient time 
3 



50 THE SPIEIT OF VENGEANCE. 

Conduct tliem to him, and that time is near, 
Kearer than he may wish ; till then I claim 
Thy silence. 

IvEGixALD. Lady ? 

Theresa. Yes, I supplicate thee 

Do all that he requires. 

Reginald. Well, for thy sake [Exit. 

TnERESA. [After apause.^ And is it thus — 

Steaistger. Be silent. Go before me. 

Manuel. Not to that place of darkness. 

Stranger. Canst thou fear ? 

Manuel. I fear but for my mother. 

TnERESA. [As they retire and disappear in the darJc- 
ness^ No, my child, 
Fear nothmg : we are safe. 

[The Stranger bursts into a terrible laugh; The- 
resa shrieks. /Scene changes. 

Scene 3. — A hall in thep>alace of Count Ernaldo. Enter 
Ernaldo and Isabelle. 

Ernaldo. The time has come, my daughter, to unfold 
The dearest purpose of my secret soul, 
Which should have been discovered long before, 
But that I dread thy answer. 

Isabelle. Am I not 

Thy child, whose duty is to do thy will ? 
Or am I of the weak and selfish nature 



THE SPIRIT OF VEl^GEANCE. 51 

That ever shrinks from duty ? 

Ekxaldo. I acknowledcce 
Never had father child more dutiful 
And excellent, yet for that A-ery cause 
I dare not name the wish that ')niist be granted : 
For should it prove unwelcome 

IsABELLE. There is nothmg 

Unwelcome to me in the way of duty. 
I have observed at times that something weighs 
Upon thy mind ; I should be proud, my father. 
If destined to remove it. 

Erxaldo. So thou art. 

IsABELLE. And how ? 

Erxaldo. I know thee prudent, I am sure ; 

Thou hast not acted like those silly girls, 
Who plight their hearts and hands without the knowledge 
Of those who gave them life. 

IsABELLE. It does uot plcasc me 

To be suspected. 

Erxaldo. Nor do I suspect thee ; 
No, I am confident thy hand and heart 
Are free, or I should know it 

Isabelle. Cut my father 

Erxaldo. What are thy thoughts of Reginald ? 

Isabelle. The question 

Is strange. 

Erxaldo. But needs an answer. 

Isabelle. I suppose him 



52 THE SPIPwIT OF VET^GEAIS^CE. 

Conscious of what lie owes, and duly grateful. 

Ernaldo. a noble youth, is it not ? 

IsABELLE. It is uot likely 

He should be so in birth, and for his spirit. 
As yet it is not proved. 

Eristaldo. Thou art deceived; 
He is of noble bearing, and his birth 

IsABELLE. It is unkuowu to all. 

Ernaldo. True — very true — 

Yet how can it be base ? Sure his demeanor 
Forbids such thought. 

IsABELLE. I think it would be easy 

To find a worthier theme. 

Ekitaldo. Then Reginald 

Is one thou dost not like ? 

IsABELLE. I neither care to like 

Or to dislike him, more than others 
Of our domestics. 

Ernaldo. Our domestics, child ? 

I shall be angry ; never dare apply 
That name to Reginald. 

IsABELLE. I have no will 

To speak or hear of him. 

Erxaldo. And when thou dost, 

Be it as he were my son. 

IsABELLE. Heavens ! how I scorn 

Thus to degrade my father ! 

Ernaldo. Yes, iny son. 



THE vSPIEIT OF VENGEANCE. 53 

And such of right he shall become by thee ; 
He loves thee well 

IsACELLE. How ! tlic auclacioiis slave ! 

And dares he 

Erxaldo. Never is his passion breathed 

In words, but it hath visible utterance 
In all his looks and actions. 

ISABELLE. Is it tllUS 

That he repays thee ? Make him know himself, 
And turn him forth, the outcast that he was, 
Before thy bounty gave the daily bread 
And nightly shelter he so ill deserves. 

Erxaldo. Thou art the least deserving of the two. 
Thou disobedient girl ! — Stir not my anger, 
Or tremble ! for by heaven I '11 cast thee forth 
From the paternal door, to meet the fate 
Thou wiliest his, and care not shouldst thou sink 
In guilt and mfamy. 

Isabelle, Let the worst come, 

Guilt or dishonor never can approach me, 
The not unworthy scion of a house 
They never have polluted. 

Erxaldo. [ With vehemence.^ Would to God ! 

Isabelle. Sir? 

Eknaldo, I forget, speak we of Reginald. 

He must be thine ; if willingly received, 
The better — with him be my blessing thine; 
But shouldst thou still rebel — woe on thv head ! 



54 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 

Thine be thy father's curse, and none the less 
My will shall be obeyed. 

IsABELLE. ISTo ciii'se Icss welcome 

Than Regmald. Ernaldo ! what ! a child 
Of thy illustrious house, and link myself 
To him, some peasant's brat ! the shame were worse 
Than death a thousand times ! 

Ekxaldo. Thou speakest this 

In ignorance ; but I am too indulgent 
To j^arley thus. I should employ the rights 
That fathers claim from Heaven. 

IsABELLE. Have they a right 

To make their children wretched ? 

Ernaldo. Say no more, 

For my resolve is fixed. 

IsABELLE. And so is mine. 

Unbidden I shall fly the house, exposed 
To poverty, to death, I care not what, 
But Keginald shall never call me his. 
ISTow let thy anger work. 

Eenaldo. [After a niomenPs thought fulness.l^ It shall 
not yet : 
I will not go to the extremity 
Till other means all fail. I have been harsh 
Beyond my wont, but I am tasked to this 
By fate imjoerative. — My child, no peace 
Can ever enter in thy father's mhid, 
No joy on earth, or hope of joy in heaven, 



THE SPIIUT OF VENGEANCE. 55 

Till thou dost grant me this. 

IsABELLE. I am amazed ! 

Let me but know how this may be — 

Erxaldo. I dare not. 

IsABELLE. I yield not then to artful supplications 
More than to savage threats. 

Erxaldo. [^Kneeling^ Could I abase me 
To this in artifice ? — Behold, I kneel — 
Thy flither kneels, thy father calls upon thee 
To save him — save him from the hell within him, 
And that which yawns beneath him ! 

IsABELLE. And all this 

By being Reginald's ? 

Erxaldo. Oh yes ! 

IsABELLE. I marvel 

VvHiy thou shouldst be so earnest in an object 
That offers nothing visible, except 
Dishonor to our house. If thou art swayed 
By reason and by honor, give me i)roof, 
And I submit. Why shouldst thou hide thy motives 
Unless dishonorable ? and if so. 
That attitude becomes thee, and is one 
I would not bid thee change, yet have no pleasure 
To see my father in. Excuse me, sir. YExit. 

Erxaldo. And so the only means of reparation 
Is thrust beyond my reach ! Am I to blame ; 
"Who placed that means beyond me? — not myself; 
Witness how diligently I pursued it. 



56 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 

How low I cast myself, — and all in yaiii! 

What other means appears ? There yet is one, 

But to accomplish this I must expose me 

To every slave's contempt, must die in shame, 

The gazing-stock of fools, bequeath my children 

My infamy, their sole inheritance. 

And cast them naked, houseless, friendless, breadless. 

To perish in the pitiless world. Can Heaven 

Command me this ? 

Enter Reginald. 

Erxaldo. How sir! it is not well 

To burst upon my privacy. 

Regixald. My lord 

Erxaldo. But let that pass, for in a welcome hour 
Thou comest ; I but now had need of thee 
To speak of earnest matters. 

Reginald. To that end 

I came, my lord. 

Erxaldo. Dost thou anticipate 

My question ? 

Reginald. No, my lord ; be what it may, 

My mind will be unfit to ponder on it 
Till thou hast answered mine. 

Erxaldo. [Throwmg himself carelessly into a seat.^ 
I 'm all attention. 

Reginald. Thy part to me, my lord, was ever one 



THE SPIEIT OF VENGEANCE. 51 

The best of fathers well might imitate, 
And gratitude has throned thee in my heart 
A very idol there. 

Er^staldo. So thou hast need 

Of added favors ? but the way tliou talkest 
Is much amiss. Seek not to wind about me 
By harping on the past, but let thy Avish 
Be frankly named, it shall be frankly granted 

Regixald. How startled, how indignant, and how 
anxious, 
Is the idolater, when told the thing 
His fancy made a god, is but a reptile 
Ignoble and detestable ! In pity 
Redeem me from such doubts, and prove thou art not 
Unworthy of my homage ! 

Eknaldo. [Stm^ting lip tremhlmg icith fury.^^ AVretch! 
what devil 
Hath sent thee for my torture — speak — by Heaven — 
By hell — thou wilt not — speak — or I will tear thee. 
Yes, villain ! I will tear thee limb from limb. 
And fling the mangled fragments to the whirlwinds — 
S2:>eak ! — who hath told thee this ? 

Regixald. [ WJio has gazed upo^i hwi iclth astonish- 
ment and horror^ sinks against a ^)27/«r, exclaiming 
in acute anguisJi.'] I have not erred then ! 

Erxaldo. Betrayed at last — and death — and shame ! — 

but no — 

It cannot be ! — 't Js false ! — curse on thy look 
3* 



58 THE SPIKIT OF VENGEANCE. 

Of doubt — 't is false, I tell tliee ! — I will swear it — 
Yes, I am innocent — ^look at these hands — 
Avaunt, thou grinning fiend ! — it is not blood — 
It is not blood, I tell thee ! — ha ! confusion ! 
One spot escaped ! Hell heave thy waves of fire 
To cleanse away this stam. 

KegijStald. [Aside.^ My worst of fears 
Reached not a crime so horrid ; 't is apparent 
He sought to slay his wife, and thinks her death 
Accomplished, [yls he is retiring^ Ernaldo rushes to him. 

Ekistaldo. Hold, there — stir not on thy life ! 

Better that thou wert damned than breathe a word 
Of this vile lie to others. I repeat 
'T is false, and challenge proof. 

Reginald. Oh that I had none ! 

Erxaldo. None — none — I tell thee none. The only eye 
Of witness near, was sealed. 

Reginald. And whose ? 

Ekxaldo. [^Hecollecting h%7nself?[ My friend, 
I have been mad, and raved I know not what. 
Remember not my words. Come, let us speak 
Of something near thy interest. 

Reginald. This of all 

Is nearest. 

Ernaldo. What? 

Reginald. Behold ! 

Enter Theresa and Manuel. 



THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 59 

Ernaldo. All hope is over ! 

Keginald. Not so. She lives ; thou canst repair lier 
wrongs, 
And all may yet be well. 

Erxaldo. Kepair her wrongs ! 

What power of earth can do it ? 

Reginald. Thine, at least 

In part. 

Eknaldo. Thou canst lay down what terras thou wilt, 
For I am in thy power ; but I 'm deceived 
If thou wilt take ungenerous advantage 
Of utter helplessness. Wretch as I am, 
That I am not all evil thou hast proof 
In what I uncompelled have done for thee. 
Thus I implore thee, suppliant at thy feet, 
By all that 's noble in thee, spare my life. 
And fame, the life of life. 

Reginald. Thy crime, though great. 

Is not of those that peril life. 

Eexaldo. Thou say it ? 

Thou speak thus of the wrong that I have done thee ? 

Reginald. No wrong have I received from thee, except 
That when I see a fellow-creature wronged, 
I feel the wrong as mine. 

Eenaldo. Either thy soul 

Is far beneath a man's or far above it ! 
Canst thou forgive me ? — me, who — ah ! a thought 
Flashes upon me. Lady, hast thou met 



60 THE SPIRIT OF VEISTGEAIS^CE. 

This yoiitli before ? " 

\^Awaiti?iff her ansioer loith breathless anxiety. 

Theresa. Yes — once. 

Ernaldo. [Hecoils^ hut recovers himself.^ And when ? 

Theresa. But now. 

Ernaldo. Hope comes agam ! Wliat knowest thou 
of this lady ? [To Reginald. 

Reginald. That she is thine, and this thy child. 

Ernaldo. 'Tis well — 

'T is excellent ! Come, I am merry now, 
And I could shout for joy. But thou art sure 
She is my wife ? 

Reginald. Canst thou deny it ? 

Erxaldo, Truly 

Not I — far be it from my wish. — ^Thou never 
Hast seen her till this day ? 

Reginald. Never, my lord. 

Ernaldo. Song, dance, and frolic, come ! We'll startle 
earth 
With peals of joy ! Thy hand, and thine fair wife ! 
Come hither, little imp. [Manuel approaches.^ Come — 

Hence ! avaunt ! 
Let me not see that face ! 't is his ! 

Reginald. My lord ! 

Ernaldo. A sickness comes upon me. Prithee leave me, 
I wish to be alone. 

Reginald. Where shall I usher 

The lady and her child ? 



THE SPiniT OF VENGEANCE. CI 

Erxaldo. I care not whither, 

So from my sight ! 

Regixald. I brought them here, my lord. 

To see them righted ; and betide what may, 
I stir not from them till to that eifect 
I have thy promise. 

Eexaldo. I shall grant the lady 

All for herself and child she may desire. 
Trouble me not — why linger? — do ye question 
My promise ? I will swear to it, and as witness 
I call on heaven. 

The Stranger, {^^ij^pearing suddenly^ Hell comes un- 
called ! 

Erxaldo. Oh God ! [Falls lifeless. 

CURTAIX DROPS. 



ACT II. 



Scene 1. — An apcivtment in Ernaldo's pcdace. Ernal- 
Do is discovered reclining on a sofa. 

Ernaldo. I laid me down in health, and I awake 
In death ! — 't is the same place, and yet I know not 
How this may be on earth, for it is said 
Death sends the spirit lience, and I am dead, 
Most surely I am dead — yet is within me 



62 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 

The conscious spirit. Was it all a fable 

Of liell and heaven ? and doth the spirit still 

Abide within the body till dissolved, 

And hover o'er it then ? 'T is said the souls 

Of sinful men are dragged to hell — and I 

Have been a fearful sinner — yet where am I ? 

Perhaps 't was false— ah no ! the flames of hell 

Arise — they scorch me now — they glow — they burn — 

Oh fire ! — Is there no hope ? — and am I lost 

Beyond repeal ? I have been told the damned 

Can shape no prayer for mercy — Can I pray ? — 

Father ! be merciful ! Oh God ! oh God ! 

I 've prayed ! — then I am safe ! — I may repent 

And be forgiven yet ! 

What ! where am I ? 
Alive, and yet on earth ! — 't was but a dream ! — 
What must those horrors be to the lost wretches 
To whom they are no dream ! 

A Voice. What thine must be ! 

[Erxaldo, shuddering^ falls on his face. After a 
moment he slowly raises his head, and looks 
fearfully around, 

Erxaldo. I w^as deceived ; guilty imagination 
Gave audible voice to my tormentor, conscience. 
'T was an appalling sound, the very tone 
Of him — whom I have silenced — 

Am I certain 
His spirit is not here ? — it is — it is — 



THE SPIRIT OF VENGEAT^CE. G3 

Mine cowers before it — oh ! an icy thrill 

Darts through my shriiikuig veins — my blood is clotted — 

The atmosphere of death is pressed around me, 

And human breath forsakes me ! 

Hark ! he comes 
Embodied! \^TJte Prixce enters. 

Yes, I '11 meet thee, for thy look 
Will kill, and so release me. 

Peixce. How, my friend ! 

What hast thou done against me, that my presence 
Appals thee ? 

Eexaldo. Is it thou, my Prince ? — but look, 

I dare not — look around us — is he gone ? 
Are we alone ? 

Peixce. AYe are. But may I know 

Whose presence awed thee ? 

Eexaldo. None. I had a dream. 

And am l)ut now awakened ; but thy presence 
My gracious Prince, would banish the remembrance 
Of real agonies, so well it may 
What but a dream inflicted. Deign accept 
My heart's best welcome. 

Peixce. Thanks ; I should be happy 

To wait on your flur daughter. 

Eexaldo. Let me hasten 

To announce the honor. \Exit, 

Peixce. There 's a courtier for you, 

Plotting and smiling. For his daughter's sake. 



64 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEAT^CE. 

If possible, I shall not when I crush 
His treason, crush him with it. 



Enter Reginald. 

Peixce. Gentle youth, 

A word. 

Reginald. Your pleasure ! 

Prince. I have well observed 

That thou art loved and trusted by Ernaldo 
As if thou wert his son. 

Reginald. Sir, these are matters 

Concerning but ourselves ; and so excuse me 
From troubling ^strangers with them. 

Prince. Nay, my friend, 

I only wished to say the Count's affection 
Has fettered thine to him. 

Reginald. It is a question 

The Count has never asked, and why should others ? 

Prince. 'T is with no idle notion that I ask it. 
It much imports to know if thy affection 
Is such to Count Ernaldo, I may trust thee 
With my designs to save him from a peril 
Inevitable else. 

Reginald. Believe me, then. 

At thy command. If peril threats Ernaldo, 
All I can do in honor to avert it 
I am prepared to do. 



THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 65 

Pkince. Now speak sincerely; 

lias lie not trusted thee with some design 
That he would hide from me ? 

Reginald. Dost thou imagine 

That I am fit for the participation 
Of deeds that shun the hght ? I can inform thee 
Ernaldo thinks not so. 

PmxcE. And canst thou swear it ? 

Reginald. Thou hast my word, sir ; if it is mistrusted, 
Does that entitle thee to claim my oath ? 
But to the point. "What the impending danger 
To be averted from the Count ? 

Peince. I ask 

Thy promise to be silent. 

Reginald. Well, 't is given. 

Peince. From strongest evidence I have assurance 
He is engaged in a disloyal cause. 
That must be overthrown before, matured, 
It takes the open field, for then its fall 
Must be Ernaldo's fall ; but if in silence 
We can defeat its end, he may escape 
Unnoticed; for this object it is needful 
That thou shouldst wind into his confidence. 
And win me added proofs, that when Ernaldo 
Confronts them may confound him. 

Reginald. Shame confound me 

If e'er I stoop to tliis ! What ! I betray 
My generous friend ! I, who disdain to harm 



i 



66 THE SPIRIT OF VEI^GEAT^CE. 

My deadliest foe, except in open strife ! 
Hence, else Ernaldo's very roof burst down 
To crusli his treacherous guest ! 

PmxcE. Thou peasant slave ! 

How dares thy touch profene me ! [Flinr/s him off, 

Reginald. Slave indeed! 

[Drawing his sioord. 

Enter ERjiTALDO, loith attendants. 

Erxaldo. Treason ! — the Prince ! — how, Reginald ! — 
do^m with him. 
Disarm him ! — I am truly grieved for this, 
My noble Prince ; the boy shall answer for it. 

Reginald. And it can well be answered. In thy cause 
I did what should be done. This noble Prince 
Is here for noble deeds. 

Prince. I can myself 

Unfold them as they are. 

[Signing to the attendayits to retire. 
Now, Count Ernaldo, 
Reply sincerely, thou shalt not rej^ent it ; 
Whate'er thy answer, by my princely word 
I pledge thy safety. \Aside^^ He appears disturbed ! 

Ernaldo. My lord, I cannot think of any question 
Whose answer perils me. 

Prince. And canst thou think 

Of what thou art suspected ? 



THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 67 

Eenaldo. Rot the tongue 

That uttered the suspicion ! — I am wronged — 
'T is false — 't is slanderous — who has dared — away ! 

[To Kegixald. 
Fix not that msolent eye in triumph on me ! 
Hast thou betrayed me ? — death ! — may furies tear thee ! 
Yet am I safe — thou hast no proof-7-niy lord, 
In all the pride of injured innocence 
I stand secure, and smile — 

Peixce. But I have proofs 

Unanswerable. 

Eexaldo. No — it cannot be — 

Think not to start my fears — ha ! is it so 
Indeed ! Then hail the worst — if I must perish 
I perish not alone. [Drawing his sword.^ Impede my way 
Who dare — off, villains ! 

[lie bursts from the attendants^ and is rushing 
aioay^ xohen the Stkanger suddenly appears before 
him / Erxaldo recoils and throws himself into 
the arms of the attendants. 

Erxaldo. Save me — save me — 

Kill me — do what ye will — but save me from him ! 
Ye lightnings, blast these eyes that fix on his 
Despite my will ! — Oh save me, Heaven ! 

Steax^ger. Thou fool 

What claim hast thou on Heaven ? 

Eex'aldo. Oh that the earth 

I grovel on, would burst and swallow me ! 



G8 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 

Stra^^^ger. Hereafter earth shall render thee that ser- 
vice, 
Yea, and a brighter element. 

Ernaldo. In mercy 

Shield me from his approach. 

\As the Stranger approaches Ernaldo lie falls 
C07ivulsed and iiiseiisihle in the arms of the at- 
tendants. 
Prince. What art thou ? 

Strange-r. One, sir 

Who loves not yon poor trembler with a love 
Passing the love of woman, yet perhaps 
About as much. Let that be as it may, 
I wish not he should bear another's sins, 
Having so many of his own to answer ; 
He is no traitor to his king. 

Prince. I cannot 

Confide in that assurance. 

Stranger. Follow me ; 

Thou shalt be satisfied. 

\^The Stranger retires: the Vrtegr follows hesitat- 
ingly. 
Reginald. [>S'w5to^m?^^ Ernaldc] How is it with you ? 
Ernaldo. [Recovering^ looks around heioildered. 

Where are the sulphurous waves ? the coiling serpents 
Darting their arrowy fire ? the laughing fiends 
Making a mirth of my calamity ? 
Methouccht I was in hell ! 



THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 69 

Reginald. Thou art on earth, 

And long shalt be, I trust. 

Ernaldo. Is it Reginald 

Speaks to me ? and in kindness ? and his arm 
Sustams me ! Knowest thou what my arm has done ? 
He comes to tell thee — Mercy ! 

Reginald. N<i7> he calm, sir : 

'T is but the Prince. 

The Peixce enters. 

Peince. My lord, I am ashamed 

Of my imjust suspicions. I believed thee 
Consjiired against my father's throne, but gladly 
I recognize thy innocence. 

Eenaldo. If all 

His subjects are as loyal as myself 
His kingdom has no traitor. 

Peixce. Yet I marvel 

What caused thy agitation. 

Eenaldo. I had heard 

Before of slanderous rumors ; and what wonder 
It wrung my very soul, to find that even 
My Prince could deem me guilty ? 

Peixce. I regret it. 

But trust thou wilt excuse it, and consent 
To knit with me a bond of amity. 
The tie, thy daughter's love. 



70 THE SPIIUT OF VENGEANCE. 

Keginald. Not Isabelle's ? 

Ernaldo. Be silent, boy ! Most gladly do I welcome 
This most imlooked-for honor. I believed not 
That thou Avouldst deign to cast affection's eyes 
On either of my daughters. 

Peince. Deign ! say rather 

Aspire ! for either merits the ambition 
Of earth's snpremest lords. 

Eenaldo. Thy words have made me 

Of fathers the most happy. But to whom 
Shall I announce the honor of thy choice ? 

Prince. The Lady Isabelle. 

Reginald. Even so ! 

Eenaldo. For her, 

I must confess that I had other views. 
Which seem not to her liking. 

Prince. And the cause 

I can reveal ; her heart to mme was plighted ; 
Nay, blame her not, for this Avas but concealed 
Till fitting time should come for the avowal. 

Ernaldo. I joy 't is come. The day that joins youi 
hands 
Shall be the proudest day of all my life. ' i 

Reginald. Is it possible, my lord ! Hast thou forgotten 
The outrage he has done thee ? Is it thus 
He should be recompensed ? 

Ernaldo. He was in error, 

And has atoned it. I am satisfied ; 



THE SPIEIT OF VENGEANCE. 71 

But it appears thy leave must first be asked, sir. 
Peince. She comes, my beautiful ! 

Enter Isabelle and Julia. 

Erxaldo. Now, Reginald, 

Think not that I am ignorant of thy motives, 
Or thy unuttered wish. Thou lovest my daughter, 
And thou art free to woo her ; should her love 
Requite thee, she is thine, nor piince nor kmg 
Shall wrest her from thee. 

Reginald. Thou but bidst me woo her 

In mockery ; but I am resolved to hear 
My sentence from her lips. I cannot boast 
Of lordly birth or proud inheritance ; 
All I can offer thee is but a heart 
Where love enthrones thee, and before thee bends 
As to its earthly god. 

Isabelle. \To the Prince.] Do me the favor 
To bid that saucy boy speak to his equals. 

Reginald. Furies! 

Ernaldo. But thou wilt give this princely 

suitor 
A gentler answer ? 

Isabelle. There is no disgrace 

In his alliance. 

Ernaldo. \To the Prince.] She is thine. 

Reginald. She thine! 



72 THE SPIEIT OF VEKGEAiN^CE. 

JSTo, never ! Dare but touch her hand — ^by Heaven 
I '11 make thee tremble ! 

Ernaldo. More respect. 

Reginald. Away! 

Stir not thy tongue to chide me ; I '11 not bear it, 
Old man, I will not. 

Ernaldo. Leave the house. 

Reginald. I shall, sir. 

N'ow am I free, and my delivered spirit 
Dances in buoyant joy. There 's none on earth 
Whose word or frown I care for. 

Ernaldo. Let us leave him. [Exit. 

Reginald. I leave you, and forever. Here no face 
I care to seek again but thine, [To the Prince.] nor thine 
In kindness. Darest thou meet me ? 

Prince. I shall give thee 

A present answer. 

Isabelle. Prince, respect thyself 

More than to notice him, a beggarly outcast. 

Reginald. A beggarly outcast! "Well, I shall re- 
member 
Those words, and so shalt thou; they shall become, 
To thee, as awful as the damning word 
That welcomes from this world the guilty spirit. 

Julia. [Soothing him.'] Dear Reginald ! 

Reginald. There shall be done a deed 
For which there is no name ; and when 't is done. 
And thou inquirest whose this deed 1 laugh 



THE SPIllIT OF VENGEANCE. 73 

Ea^cii now to think how I shall triumph then, 

To yell in answer Mine! the beggarly outcast's! 

Julia. Be calm, dear Reginald. 

Reginald. Calm as the whirlwind! 

Fly me ! — I would not harm thee — but I feel 
As I could tear to pieces all around us, 
Myself and thee. 

Julia. Dear Reginald ! 

IsABELLE. He 's wclcomo 

To spend his rage in words. 

Regii^ald. Words! — deeds! — such deeds! 

Think me not powerless, though bereft of all — 
Xo country mine, nor kindred, not a friend — 
Love, honor, happiness, nor even a home 
Is mine — ^but thou. Revenge ! thou shalt be mine. 
Though from the lowest depths of hell I call thee ! 

The Stranger. \^Rea2:)2yearmg.^ It comes ! 

Julia. God shield us! 

Reginald. If thou bringest revenge. 

Thou art as welcome as a messenger 
To heaven. 

Stranger. ^^y? there I cannot be thy herald ; 

But I can lead to vengeance. [Mcit, 

Reginald. On ! I follow ! 

Julia. [ Clingiiig to Reginald.] My friend, my brother, 
stay ! in pity hear me, 
And go not with that bad and terrible man! 

Reginald. Off! troublesome girl. 



Y4 THE SPIPvIT OF VENGEAlSrCE. 

IsABELLE. Sister, for shame ! 

Julia. Thou shalt not, — 

Thou shalt not go. 

Stkangee. [Without.'] Reginald! 

Reginald. Hark! I come! 

Revenge is mine ! 

[J jjiAA falls, as he breaks from her and rushes away. 

CURTAIN DEOPS. 



ACT ni. 



Scene I. — Night. A iStorm. The Steanger is discov- 
ered on the hrinJc of a precipice overhanging a river. 

Stranger. Howl on, ye maddened elements! your 
groans 
That shake creation, sooner shall be swallowed 
In eve's soft whispering zephyi's, than shall drown 
The eternal voice within me. Every sound 
Has been opposed to this, and all in vain ! 
The shock of armies on the embattled field, 
The blast of glory's trump, the thunder-burst 
Of thronged applause, the adulation breathed 
From kneeling myriads, the melody 
Angelical, tlie lips of beauty bathing. 



THE SPIRIT OF VENGEAI^CE. 75 

Or trembling from the strings that dance "beneath 

Her alabaster fingers — all by thee, 

Merciless conscience ! — all are overpowered, 

And thou art heard alone ! — ^Why then, all hail ! 

Tormentor welcome ! I disdain to shrink 

From horrors that with fiends I laugh upon 

When others "vmthe beneath them ; — shall they laugh 

To mock my own ? — they dare not — they shall tremble ! 

Enter Reginald. 

Steangee. [JDescending the rocJcs.'] At last he comes, 
the unconscious instrmnent 
Of 7ny revenge. 

Reginald. Who names revenge? — Oh wel- 

come ! — 
Speak ! speak ! instruct me in some deed imearthly 
To make me for the infernal goddess Vengeance 
A blood-anointed priest, and my example 
The utmost that to the incarnate furies 
Could seem desirable of imitation. 

Steangee. We shall attend to this within a moment. 

Reninald. This moment. 

Steangee. I must first — 

Reginald. Why dost thou vex me 

With trifling ? Can I heed thee while a tempest, 
To which were this around us calm as Eden, 
Maddens my heart to bursting ! — Hence — lead on — 



70 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEA:N^CE. 

I care not wliither, so it lead to vengeance ! 

Stbanger. Be patient ; give me time, that I may shape 
An object for thy vengeance, so subhme 
In horror, hell's angelic host shall clap 
Their gloomy wings applausive. 

Reginald. Yes, I 'd wait 

For ages, so the sum of my revenge 
Increased with every moment. [^Exeunt. 

Scene 2. — A room in Ernaldo's ^a^ace. 
Enter Eenaldo. 

Ernaldo. Happy Ernaldo ! thy illustrious house 
Now Ihiks to royalty ! — Oh very happy! 
Hell yawns before me, and a blood-robed phantom 
Is ever near to plunge me in the abyss. 
A diadem upon this achmg brow 
Could be no charm against him, or my conscience. 
Who shall preserve me from them ? — Oh ye heavens ! 
'T is said that ye are merciful and mighty, 
Mighty to save, and merciful to pardon — 
If ye are merciful, why am I thus ? 
Have I not knelt for mercy, prayed for mercy. 
And wept for mercy ? From this iron heart 
What tears have not been wrung, and all for mercy — 
What mercy have I found ? 

Enter Julia. 



THE SPIEIT OF VENGEANCE. -77 

ERNia^DO. Who's there ? My daughter, 

What biings thee hither from the Mithesome circle 
Where all is gay festivity ? 

Julia. My duty. 

EmsTALDO. Let that be made appear. 

Julia. I saw thee turn 

From all the merriment with clouded brow ; 
I know the cause — 

Eknaldo. Xow God forbid ! 

Julia. My father, 

I followed to implore thou wouldst remove 
Thy sorrow and its cause. 

Eeistaldo. \_JBltterly^ Who can remove it ? 

Julia. Though Reginald was worthy blame, thy heart 
Repents the moment's rigor that has driven 
The boy of thy adoption from thy house, 
I know 't is this afflicts thee. 

Eexaldo. I am sorry 

For what hath past ; but he may thank himself; 
Let him abide the consequence. 

Julia. Ah no ! 

Thy heart speaks other language ; I miplore thee 
Obey its better counsel ; send for him, 
Forgive him and receive him to thy favor — 
Say, wilt thou not, dear father ? 

Erxaldo. Why, thou pleadest 

With more than filial love. 

Julia. He was my brother, 



78 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 

My only brother ; was he not to thee 
A son ? hast thou another to supply 
His place in thy affections ? 

EiixALDO. Or in thine ? 

Ha ! girl ! thou lovest him ? 

Julia. As a sister should. 

Erxaldo. Thy tone speaks further than thy words. 
Nay, prithee 
My girl, forbear that look distressed ; I read 
Thy heart, and blame it not. My other views 
For Reginald have failed ; thy innocent love 
Shall well redeem their failure. Do I err? 
Art thou unwilling to be his ? 

Julia. Thy pleasure 

Is all I seek, dear father. 

Eexaldo. "When the same 

As thine, ha! wench? I wish the boy were here 
To see that baby face, where smiles and tears 
Make mirth of one another. Let us seek 
The festive band ; the merriest of them all 
Shall find a match in one of us — ha! daughter! [Exeimt. 

ScEisTE 3. — The hermitage hi the ruined castle. 

Miter TiiEEESA and Manuel. 

Manuel. Where is that evil man ? What has he said 
To make thy countenance so sorrowful ? 
Mother, believe it not. 



THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 79 

Theresa. Alas! too well 

I know its triitli. 

Maistuel. Oh for a warrior's sword ! 

Oh for a giant's arm ! that I might thank him 
For adding to thy sorrows. 

Theresa. Hush, my child ; 

I would not any, thou the least of all, 
Should harm a hair of his head. 

Enter Reginald folloicing The Stranger. 

Reginald. Ha ! what are these ? 

Ernaldo's wife and child ! what do they here? 

Stranger. Thou art deceived ; nor this Ernaldo's wife, 
Nor this his child. 

Reginald. Whose then ? 

Stranger. Roy, ask thy mother. 

Manttel. Yes, mother, tell me now what oft in vain 
I 've asked of thee. 

Theresa. Few nobler are in birth 

And none in spirit, than thy father was. 
His generous virtues and his high achievements 
A nation voiced in triumph, as defymg 
The world to match her favorite son. 

Manuel. Oh mother ! 

How proud I should be of him, 

Theresa. But there came 

An earthquake on his soul, whose terrible 



80 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 

Kevulsion, overthrew and buried all 
His better feelings. 

Manuel. Whose unholy work 

"Was that ? heaven's curse upon them ! 

Theresa. His high estate 

And fortune measureless, tempted a villain 
To his destruction. 

Manuel. Damn him ! 

Theresa. Hush ! 

Steanger. Proceed. 

Theresa. One eve, returning from a pleasant ride, 
My husband and myself, and our young child 
Were set upon by villains ; our attendants 
Dispersed or slain, 1 fled with womanish weakness, 
But by the feelings of a wife and mother 
Recalled, I hastened back — the child was gone — 
My husband — 

Manuel. Oh not dead ! 

TiiEEESA. My shrieks attracted 

The inmates of a neighboring cottage ; thither 
They bore my husband's body; by our care 
He was at last restored. 

Manuel. Thank God. 

Theresa. His hfe 

Continued in suspense. Spare me the rest. 

Stranger. It better suits my tongue. When he recov- 
ered, 
His wife — imprudent wretch ! — she told him whose 



THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 81 

The murderous arm that struck him ; from that moment 

His soul became a hell, whose ruling demon 

Was vengeance. But in vain for many a year 

He sought the murderer, who in guilty terror 

Had fled the country, even without securing 

The fruits he simied for. 

Manuel. And my father then 

Went home and claimed his own? 

Steaxgee. No : he was careful 

That his existence should be kept a secret 
From all, lest it should reach his destined victim 
And warn him to escape. Meantime to forward 
His views, he joined himself to vile banditti. 

Manuel. Oh pitiful ! 

Steangee. He soon became their greatest 

In prowess and in guilt ; he roved mth them 
From clime to clime, and like a conqueror's 
His path was tracked with blood. 

Manuel. Alas, my mother ! 

Didst thou attend such scenes ! 

Theeesa. I little knew 

That such were passing. When thy father left me 
He told not whither he would go or why. 
Years passed ; he came again, and I imagined 
Guiltless as ever. He continued with me 
Till thou wast born, but soon abruptly left us 
Nor since returned. 

Steangee. For he was called away 

4# 



82 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 

By tidings that at last his destined victim 
Had publicly appeared, and as his heir 
Assumed his name, his title and his fortunes. 
But still pursuit was vain, until the wars 
In which an honorable j)art was borne 
By the usurper, ending, he retired 
To his usurped domains. 

Manuel, And there he fell 

Beneath my father's arm? 

Stranger. No : the avenger 

Restrained himself, to study direr pangs 
Than death can give. But oft to slake liis soul 
Burning with enmity to all mankind. 
He plunged in guiltless blood. 

Manuel. Oh tell me, mother, 

Tell me that he deceives me, that a wretch 
So wicked and dishonored, could not be 
The father of thy Manuel. 

Stranger. By whose fault 

Became thy father wicked and dishonored ? 
By hers ! — Had she concealed the assassin's name, 
The spirit of revenge had slumbered still. 
Being without an object, and thy father 
Had still been innocent and honorable. 

Theresa. Forgive me ! [Sohhing. 

Stranger. Damn thee ! aye when God forgives me 

Will I forgive thee ! — Boy, I must avenge 
Thy father's ruined soul. [Stabs her. 



THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 83 

Manuel. Oh, kill me too ! 

But thou, [To Reginald.] I charge thee, as thou art a man, 
Visit our blood upon him ! 

Theresa. Hush, my Manuel, 

Speak not a word against him. Heaven forgive me 
As I forgive him. 

Manuel. Oh my angel mother ! 

I cannot let thee leave me. 

Theresa. Nearer — nearer — 

I '11 waft thy kiss to heaven, and there I trust 
It shall be rendered back. "Where art thou ? 

Manuel. Here, 

My dearest mother. 

Theresa. From my misted eyes 

Thou fadest like a vision — yet I feel 
Thy kisses on my cheek — one more — farewell — 
God bless thee, my sweet boy ! 

Manuel. Look there ! 

[The Stranger makes a sigtial, at which some at- 
tendants enter. 

Stranger. Remove them ! 

Manuel. Punish that wicked man. 

Stranger. Begone ! 

[Exeunt attendants with the hody^ dragging Man- 
uel with them. 

And now, sir, 
What thinkest thou of this lesson ? 

Reginald. I must tliink 



84 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEAJS'CE. 

Thou art a master-fiend. 

Stranger. That woman's sin 

Was worthy death. 

Reginald. What do they merit then, 

By whom I have been frenzied ? 

Stranger. Worse than death. 

Wouldst slay the Prince ? 

Keghstald. Oh yes ! 

Stranger. How pitiful ! 

Death but inflicts one pang, and by that one 
Averts a myriad. 

Reginald. But I must have blood 

To quench this raging fire. 

Stranger. And thou shalt liave it, 

But not the Prince's. 

Reginald. Whose ? 

Stranger. His destined bride's. 

Reginald. Ah! 

Stranger. Dost thou shudder, fool ? 

Reginald. [^Faltering.'] Poor Isabelle ! 

Stranger. Poor Reginald ! those are the very words 
She whispers now to thy more happy rival ; 
For even at this late hour a brilliant thronsr 
Are celebrating in Ernaldo's halls 
The approaching nuptials, and the amorous pair 
Belike bestow a thought of pity on thee 
Amid their revelry. 

Reginald. Curse on their pity ! 



THE SPIEIT OF VENGEANCE. 85 

Come, we shall revel too ; but it shall be 
In blood. 

Stranger. In Isabelle's ? 

Reginald. I care not whose. \Exeu7iU 

ScEXE 4. — A hall in Eenaldo's palace^ splendidly deco- 
rated and illuminated. Erxaldo, Isabelle, Julia, the 
Prince, and a throng of lords and ladies are discovered. 

Ernaldo. What duUs the merriment ? Come girl, 't is 
thme, [^To Julia. 

To waken it with one of thy sweet songs, 
That well might waken death. 

Omxes. a song ! a song ! 

Julia. Father — 

Ernaldo. I '11 be obey'd. 

Omxes. a song ! a song ! 

Julia sings. 

What is the sweetest feeling 

That ever on the soul 
Of youth or maiden stealing. 

Bids waves of rapture roll ? 
What the sublimest pleasure 

Of those embowered above ? 
Or earth's divinest treasure ? 

'T is love ! immortal love ! 

[Chorus of youths and maide^is. 



86 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 

What are the ties most holy 

That link this happy pair ? 
And what the bliss that solely 

To know on earth they care ? 
And what the charm to either 

Shall seem all charms above, 
Which time can sweep from neither? 

'T is love ! immortal love ! [ Chorus. 

Ernaldo. Well, girl — 

Julia. Excuse me, for I am opprest 

With faintness, and have need to be relieved 
By the fresh air. 

A Cavalier. Permit me? 

[ Offering his arm., which she accepts^ and reti'^es 
with him. 
Eenaldo. Lords and dames, 

Let this not break your pastime. — Music there ! 
Strike up a dance, and let our marble walls 
Shake to the bound of merry feet. — What now ? 

[ Jb an attendant^ who enters and approaches Ee- 

NALDO. 

Attendant. Entering the chamber where I had com- 
mitted 
The lady and the child entrusted to me, 
I found them gone. 
Ernaldo. Why, let them go ! I care not. 

\Attendant retires 
Fear, danger, sorrow, from this happy hour 



THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. 87 

Shall never trouble me. Strike up, I say ! 

[A dance. The Stkanger and Reginald enter and 
stand apart unnoticed. 
Steanger. a joyous sight. 

Reginald. How maddening is the mirth 

Of all around us, when we ourselves are wretched ! 
Stranger. We '11 turn their mirth to mourninir. 
Reginald. Look — see there — 

She smiles Hke heaven ! 

Stranger. She smiles upon thy rival. 

Reginald. Curse on her and her smiles ! angelic devil ! 
See — see — ^liis arm entwmes her ! — well ! may this 
Of mine drop from me, but he shall repent it ! 
They laugh ! — Oh I could tear them ! 

Stranger. Haply thou 

And thy aspiring love provoked that burst 
Of merriment. 
Reginald. My time shall come ! 
Stranger. Observe 

They steal away together. 

Reginald. And together 

They die ! 

Stranger. Be cautious, and in silence follow. 

[They reth'e u?i2?erceivedj in the same direction as 
the Prince a7id Isabelle. Scoie changes to a 
garden^ by moonlight. Enter the Stranger and 
Reginald. 
Stranger. We have lost their track. 



88 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEAIs^CE. 

Reginald. But like a raging lion 

I '11 range in every jAace, till I have found them 
Witlim my fangs. 

Stranger. Patience ; await them here, 

For they must pass this way. Dost thou remember 
How I employed this dagger ? 

Reginald. I shall prove 

Upon the accursed Prmce, I can employ it 
As well. 

Stranger. That as thou wilt ; but Isabelle 
Must die. 

Reginald. They both shall die. 

Stranger. I hear their steps. 

Remember. [Betirmg. 

Reginald. 'T is resolved. 

[A Cavalier a7id Lady pass by. 

Lady. How beautiful 

Appears the face of Heaven ! 

Cavalier. Like thine ! 

Lady. I never 

Saw fairer sight. [They pass on. 

Reginald. Ye skies ! how dare ye smile 
In mockery of horror ! Ye beauteous stars ! 
Young eyes of Heaven ! ye do profane yourselves 
K ye do look upon me ! — ^Arise ! arise ! 
Ye shades of Hell arise ! from earth and Heaven 
Cover a deed whose darkness pales your own ! 

[The Lady and Cavalier agam p)ass hy. 



THE SPIRIT OF VENGEAIS^CE. 89 

Lady. Shall we return ? 

Reginald. They must not pass in safety 

This time; my baffled vengeance shall not be 
Their jest. — Ho there! — the beggarly outcast strikes! 

[Stabs the Lady, who falls loith a shriek ; tlie Cav- 
alier supports her ; Reginald is about to stab 
him^ when Manuel rushes forioard and catches 
his arm. 
Manuel. Forbear ! forbear ! — Who sins against another 
Sins most against himself. 

Enter Ernaldo, the Prince, Isabelle, Cavaliers, Ladies, 
and attendants^ loith torches. 

Reginald. Too true thou speakest. 

Oh Julia ! have I slain thee ! — thee of all 
The only one that loved me ! — Would to God 
That I had loved thee sooner ! 

Julia. Reginald ! 

Dear Reginald ! such tender words from thee 
Are cheaply bought with life. 

Ernaldo. Where shall I turn 

For comfort ? 

Strager. [Advancing.'] Here ! 

Ernaldo. The might of agony 

Sustains me in thy presence. Hast thou come 
To drag me down to hell ? behold me ready ! 
Such are my torments here, I cannot dread 
An added pang hereafter. 



90 THE SPIRIT OF VENGEAKCE. 

Stranger. Thanks, good brother ! 

Thou knowest not how much thy words deUght me ! 
But I can tell thee something for thy comfort ; 
Thy weapon did not perfectly accomplish 
Thy brotherly intent. Nay, I have lived 
For vengeance yet ; regard the scene before thee 
And say, have I not lived to a good purpose ? 

Reginald. Sj^eak not of death, sweet girl ! — there yet 
is hope — 
'T is not a fatal wound ; thou wilt recover — 
Thou wilt — and I shall love thee — love thee dearly — 
And all shall yet be well ! 

Stranger. Thus I forbid it ! 

[/Stabbing Reginald, \dJio falls at Julia's side. 
Ernaldo. Oh miserable father ! 
Stranger. Yes, I knew, 

From the first moment that my eyes beheld him, 
He was thy lawless son ; and that impelled me 
To study his perdition, as one means 
Of cursing thee. 

Ernaldo. ^^Scarce able to articulate.'] 'T is not my son — 
'T is thine ! 

[ The Stranger stands gazing at Ernaldo for a 
moment j then rushes to him and drags him off 
the scene. All stand transfixed xoith horror, till 
startled by a wild cry without. 

curtain DRors. 



LOVE'S YOUNG DEEAM. 



LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 



THE FLOWER OF LOYE. 

That we for riper years sliould stay, 

Though coldly thou declarest, 
I tell thee, in the bloom of May 

The flower of love is fairest. 
All who have loved must know the truth 

That love with tune is flying ; 
It blooms but in the bloom of youth. 

Its power mth beauty dying. 
To beauty, by her magic strung. 

Love consecrates his lyre. 
And none, except the fair and young, 

Its accents can inspire. 
That we for riper years should stay. 

Though coldly thou declarest, 
I tell thee in the bloom of May 

The flower of love is fairest ! 



94 MY BLUE-EYED IMAID. 



MY BLUE-EYED MAID. 

WKITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. 

FoEGET me not, my blue-eyed maid, 

When fate our parting shall decree ! 
My love may never be repaid. 

But still, oh, still remember me ! 
Thy image, in my heart enshrined 

In death's embrace alone shall fade ; 
When I am in his arms reclined. 

Forget me not, my blue-eyed maid ! 

If on the monumental stone 

The name of one thou chance to see, 
Whose heart was thine, and thine alone, 

Oh then, my love, remember me. 
As one that were supremely blest 

His life before thee to have laid, 
Could that insure his last request : 

Forget me not, my blue-eyed maid 



3IY FONDEST AND FAIREST. 95 

MY FONDEST AND FAIREST. 

My fondest and fairest ! 

Oh why dost thou stay? 
How can I be haj^py 

While thou art away ? 
I yearn to be with thee 

Wherever thou art — 
My sweetest and dearest ! 

Return to my heart ! 

My fondest and fairest ! 

While sadly I cast 
My glance round the scenes 

Where I looked on thee last, 
Methinks I behold thee — 

To clasj) thee I start — 
My sweetest and dearest 

Return to my heart ! 

My fondest and fairest ! 

No longer delay! 
I 'm weary — I 'm wretched 

While thou art away ! 
Come ! bring me the rapture 

None else can impart ! 
My sweetest and dearest ! 

Return to my heart ! 



96 THE CIIAEMS OF WOMAN. 

THE CHARMS OF WOMAN. 

The glittering stars we admire, 

And the sun on his throne in the skies, 
And we worship the lovelier fire 

That sparkles in woman's sweet eyes ; 
The bloom of the flourishing roses 

Delight to the eyes can impart ; 
And the bloom that dear woman discloses 

Has far more delight for the heart. 

How sweetly the zephyrs are throwing 

The fragrance they snatch fi'om the flowers ! 
How sweeter the breath that is flowing 

From the pure lips of woman to ours ! 
Whatever around thee thou meetest, 

The spell of delight that can lend, 
The brightest, the fairest, the sweetest, 

In woman far lovelier blend. 

Her eyes have a heavenly splendor. 

But if virtue have kindled its star 
In her soul, its resplendence will lend her 

A light that is lovelier far ! 
Her breath has a sweetness when blending 

With ours in the pure kiss of love ! 
Far sweeter that breath when ascending 

In prayer to her Maker above. 



THE CHARMS OF WOMAN. " 97 

When in one all the charms are united 

On the soul and the senses that steal, 
When we gaze on her softness delighted, 

Or when to her brightness we kneel ; 
However those beauties may ravish, 

And fetter the soul and the eyes, 
Not on them all our thoughts should we lavish, 

But spare one, at least, for the skies. 

If the light of her eyes we admire. 

Oh, what is the glory of Him, 
From whom Heaven's eyes had the fire. 

To which even beauty's were dim ! 
Who the blaze to Apollo has given. 

Which the stars to behold cannot bear ! 
What splendor on earth or in Heaven 

Can with its Creator's compare ! 

If all the creation discloses 

Such beauty our homage to claim. 
How awful a beauty reposes 

On the brow of the God whence it came ! 
When woman upon you has laid her 

Control, while you love and adore. 
Oh, think of the Being who made her. 

And love Him and worship Him more ! 



98 THE GEAVE OF MARY. 



THE GRAVE OF MARY. 

Far, far from this grave be the footstep unholy, 
Its sanctity that would presume to invade ! 

By all who approach it, with reverence lowly, 
May homage to virtue and beauty be paid ; 

To virtue and beauty that almost had made her 

On earth, what they now have quite made her in heaven ; 

For the seraphic charms, in this world that arrayed her, 
To wither as soon as they bloomed were not given ; — 

Ah no ! they were only transj^lanted again. 

To bloom in the glorious world whence they came ; 

Where nothing of earth or corruption shall stain 
Their splendors on high that eternally flame. 

My Mary ! my love ! art thou hovermg near 

To look ui^on him o'er thy dust who is kneeling. 

While wrung from my bosom, full many a tear 
To water the grave of my Mary is stealmg ? 

While o'er thee in passionate agony bending, 
I fondly would think, from the regions above, 

Thy spirit I see in its beauty descending, 
To calm my Avild anguish for Mary my love. 



1 



MY OWI^, MY CHOSEN BKIDE. 99 

MY OWN, MY CHOSEN BRIDE. 

AxD thou art torn, my fairest ! 

From liim who loves thee best, 
And I must lose the heaven 

That long my heart has blest ! 
But though we part, my fairest ! 

No parting can divide 
Our wedded hearts, my fairest ! 

My own, my chosen bride ! 

Forget me not, my fairest ! 

Thou shalt not be forgot ; 
Remember all our fondness — 

Sweet love ! forget me not ! 
Where'er thou art, my fairest ! 

My soul is at thy side ; 
My heart with thine, my fairest ! 

My own, my chosen bride ! 

For years and years, my fairest ! 

A hfe of toil and care 
Must wm a worthy fortune, 

For thee at last to share ; 
But then — oh then, my fairest ! 

I '11 come with joy and pride, 
To clahn my first, my fairest ! 

My own, my chosen bride ! 



100 LOVE WITHOUT HOPE. 

LOVE WITHOUT HOPE. 

The meanest wretch that sullies earth 

May on thy heauty gaze, 
And all unconscious of its worth 

May bask him in its hlaze ; 
And those who care not for thy sight 

Their hours may by thee spend, 
Where 't would emparadise me quite 

One moment to attend. 

And those who to its charms are dead 

Thy angel voice may hear, 
Which never shall its music shed 

For him who holds it dear ! 
And worthless fools the smile command 

That me with heaven would bless, 
And heartless wretches clasp the hand 

That I would die to press ! 

But I who love thee — I to whom 

Thou art a saint below, 
Ne*er to approach thee may j^resume 

Nor scarce a glance bestoAv ; 
I gaze when thou art gliding past, 

Unconscious of my eyes. 
As gaze the lost at glunpses cast 

From opening Paradise ! 



LOVE WITHOUT HOPE. 101 

Why should I seek thy heart to gain ? 

Thy hand must be denied ! 
Why should they link affection's chain 

Whom fortune's gulfs divide ? 
Still shall I watch thee glide before, 

But bound my wishes there — 
Such bliss is even this, that more 

Seems more than life could bear 



102 LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAT. 



LOYE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY. 

Though fixther and mother 

Forbid me tliy sight, 
Though sister and brother 

Against us unite, 
Though all that surround us 

To part us essay. 
From aU will I win thee — 

Love will find out the way. 

Though oceans may sunder. 

Or mountains may close. 
Or tempests may thunder 

The path to oj^pose ; 
Though earthquakes between us 

The abyss may disj^lay. 
Through all w^ill I wm thee — 

Love will find out the way. 

Through forest and desert. 

Through flood and through flame. 
Through pain and through peril, 

Through sorrow and shame, 
Through darkness and danger. 

By night or by day. 
Through death and destruction — 

Love will find out the way. 



LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY. 103 

Yes, I will regain tlice, 

My chosen, my Lest ! 
My bird ! thou shalt nestle 

Again in my breast ; 
This heart for thy refuge. 

This arm for thy stay, 
I will guard thee forever — 

Love will find out the way. 



104 MY LOVE LOVES ME. 



MY LOVE LOVES ME. 



On there is a song 

That the young heart smgs I 
That forth in a fountain 

Of music sprmgs, 
As fresh as the dance 

Of the streams set free — 
" I love my love, 

And my love loves me ! " 

Sweetest and dearest, 

Fondest and best. 
While with thy presence 

N"o longer blest, 
My heart murmurs o'er 

As it strays to thee, — 
" I love my love, 

And my love loves me ! " 

And thou, my beloved. 

When I leave thy sight. 
It soothes me to think 

That thou wilt delight 
To murmur the sonor 

I taught to thee, 
" I love my love, 

And my love loves me ! " 



MY LOVE LOVES ME. 1()5 

Wc heed not the pleasures 

To others known, 
A better and dearer 

Is ours alone, 
To whisper our liearts 

In their secret glee, — 
" I love my love, 

And my love loves me ! " 

And oh ! when again 

I welcome thy face. 
When agam I clasp thee 

In fond embrace, 
To me wilt thou Avhisper, 

And I to thee, — 
" I love my love. 

And my love loves me ! " 



106 BKOKEN TIES. 



BROKEN TIES. 

Go — I from my soul disclaim thee, 
Mine I never more shall name thee ; 
By the love that thou hast slighted, 
By the joy that thou hast blighted, 
By the fairy visions vanished, 
Ingrate ! go, forever banished ! 

By the promise vainly spoken, 

By the heart thou wouldst have broken, 

Did not strength of soul sustain me. 

That I mourn not but disdain thee, 

Go, forever from me driven ! 

Go — forgotten — not forgiven ! 

When thou iindest all around thee 
Faithless, worthless, as I found thee. 
Thou shalt learn the worth to measure 
Of the heart thou wouldst not treasure ; 
But in vain thy soul's repentance — 
Irrevocable the sentence — 
Go, forever from me driven ! 
Go — forgotten — not forgiven ! 



TIIE BEST AND THE WOEST OF IT. 107 



THE BEST AND THE WORST OF IT. 

When to the crowded halls of mirth 
I turn, from lonely thoughts to fly, 

And find the change but little worth. 

Amid the throng alone on earth, 
For very sorrow I could die. 

But when that heavenly face I see 
Whose loving looks to mine reply, 

The world appears my own to be. 

For she is all the world to me, 
And I for very joy could die. 

When youthful dreams, forever fled. 
From memory claim the hopeless sigh ; 

When long lost friends like sjjectres tread. 
The cold, the faithless and the dead ! " 
I feel so wretched I could die. 

But when those eyes, in which I trace 

The beauty of the starlight sky, 
Look up so fondly in my face. 
All sweetness and confiding grace, 

I feel so happy I could die. 



108 THE LOCK OF HAIE. 



THE LOCK OF HAIR. 

She loved me well, whose precious head 

This cherished ringlet bore ; 
Yet there will come a time I dread, 

When she will love no more : 
A thousand chances will occur 

Her kindness to estrange ; 
This little lock is all of her 

That time will never change ! 
And when the lip that once I prest 

No smile to me will give. 
This ringlet in my lonely breast 

Shall bid some comfort live ; 
And when some happier heart shall bless 

The love I must resign. 
How will I prize this little tress, 

Unaltered still and nime ! 
I have but little joy on earth 

Or hope of joy above. 
Save one that every joy is worth — 

The Paradise of love : 
Why must I know it will not last, 

That fate will only spare. 
Of all the love and rapture past, 

One little lock of hair I 



I KNOW THAT THOU ART FAK AWAY. 109 



I KNOW THAT TIIOU ART FAR AWAY. 

I KNOW that thou art far away, 

Yet in my own despite, 
My still expectant glances stray 

Inquiring for thy sight ; 
Though all too sure that thy sweet face 

Shall bless no glance of mine ; 
At every time, in every place, 

My eyes are seeking thine. 

I hope — ^liow vain the hope I know — 

That yet some blissful chance 
May brmg thee here, again to throw 

Thy sweetness on my glance ; 
But my best love, where'er thou art, 

Whate'er be my despair. 
My eyes shall seek thee, and my heart 

Shall love thee everywhere. 



110 love's AMBITIOJSr. 



LOVE'S AMBITION. 

FKOM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD KREZ, 

Oh that I were a king 

In golden pomp arrayed ! 
And thou, most beautiful, 

Wert but an humble maid ; 

Then would I say to thee, 

" Oh best beloved of mine, 
Behold my crown and throne. 

For throne and cro^^ai are thine ! 

" In truth thou art not sprung 

From those of royal race, 
But Nature's royalty 

Adorns thy form and face. 

" I climbed the lofty heights — 
I found them drear and bare ; 

I sought the deepest vale — 

The sweetest flower was there ! " 

Now, from thy rosy mouth, 

I hear the gentle sound — 
" Oh let that flower remain 

Still in its native ground ! 

" Its beauty and perfume 
Live in this mossy place ; 



love's ambition. Ill 



Why break it off to die 
Within a golden vase ? 

" I ask not for my brow 

A coronet of pearls — 
Give me a buddmg rose 

To place among my curls ! " 

I fling my sceptre far, 
Deep, in the deepest sea — 

For what are crown and throne 
Without thy love for me ? 

'T is not a cro^^Ti of gold 

Can match thy brighter hair — 
'T is not a diamond wi'eath 

Can with thine eyes compare ! 

Had I as many crowns 
As shine the stars above — 

Oh ! I would give them all, 
Sweet maiden, for thy love ! 

And yet I must repeat — 
And thou wilt not upbraid — 

Oh that I were a kmg. 

And thou an humble maid ! 



112 WEDDED LOVE. 

WEDDED LOVE. 

I MAY not call to grandeur's hall 

The lady of my heart ; 
I have not power or wealthy dower 

My true love to hnpart ; 
I bid her from a sphere to come 

That far is mine above ; 
Yet shall not this impair the bliss 

That hails our wedded love ! 

She will not grieve a home to leave 

Magnificent in pride, 
In lowly cot to share my lot, 

Obscurely there to hide ; 
Though desolate of friend or mate, 

Save me and God above, 
Yet shall not this impair the bliss 

That hails our wedded love. 

She has been nurst among the first 

And proudest of the land, 
Where from her head all danger fled, 

At fortune's magic wand : 
But ill my bower in stormy hour 

Can shield my gentle dove ; 
Yet shall not this impair the bhss 

That hails our Avedded love. 



WEDDED LOVE. 113 

I every clay a tender lay 

Shall waken to her name, 
And every night to throne of might 

Shall kneel to bless the same ; 
For years and years, through smiles and tears, 

I '11 prize her all above ; 
And well shall this insure the bliss 

That hails our wedded love. 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



A NEW-YEAR'S GREETING TO MY DAUGHTER. 

So it is gone ! — another year ! 

A drop of time lost in the sea 

Of dark and deep eternity, 
In which we all must disappear ! 
AYell, since so transient our career, 
The blessings that attend the way 
More precious grow with every day : 

So is it with my Eveline, 

And ever was since she was mine ; 
Since first she nestled on my breast, 
And on its beatings rocked to rest ; 
And when her little arms at length 
To twine around me gathered strengtii, 
And her young eyes rej^lied to mine 
With love's intelligence divine ; 
When first her lips began to frame 



118 A NEW- year's GEEETIT^G. 

Sweet murmurings of a father's name ; 
Or with more eloquence of love 

Those rosy lijis to mine were prest — 
Oh, closer still I clasped my dove, 

And conld have died so very blest ! 

Years passed — the infant passed from sight- 
A glorious child stood in her place, 

With golden cnrls and eyes of light, 
And fairy form and seraph face ; 

Her feet went dancmg as they trod, 
In fullness of her heart's delight ; 

Her voice sent carols up to God — 

I heard it not, but God knows best — 
I felt so hai^py, sure He smiled 
In love on father as on child : 

I know it, for we have been blest ! 
And though at times we feel His rod. 

He blest us, and we shall be blest ! 

My child, my friend, my playmate dear ! 
And dearer still with every year, 
Smce more and more I seem to find 
An answering sympathy of mind. 
My pleasures, hopes, and views that shares, 
In part, my studies and my cares ! 
Oh, while we live, can each depend 
At least on one unfailing friend ! 



A NEW-YEAk's GIlEETmG. ng 

For friendshiii, like a dream expires, 
And love itself burns out its fires ; 
But who, my child, shall rend apart 
The links that bind us heart to heart ? 
I '11 hold thee flist, whate'er my lot, 
My child ! my friend that faileth not ! 
And thou — betide thee good or ill — 
Cling to me close and closer still. 
And lay thy head upon my breast, 
Thy refuge, and thy j^lace of rest! 

Roll on, ye years ! if, as ye roll. 

Ye bring more treasures to her soul ! 

I know not, and I care not much, 

How she may look to other eyes — 
I praise her not for form or face ; 

More happy far to recognize 
The beauty which alone can touch 

The soul — the mind's unmortal srrace ; 
The heart, unknown to sin's control ; 

The spirit robed in light divine. 
Still soaring to its native place ; — 

These be thy glories, Eveline ! 
The Avings that yet shall lift thee far 

Above the bondage of our clay. 
And make thee as the Morning Star, 

That shineth unto perfect day! 



120 TO MY WIFE. 

TO MY WIFE. 

The winds of March are loose again, 

And shrinking, from the piercing air, 
I shudder at the thought of pain 

That I have borne, and yet may bear ; 
But while the scenes return to view, 

Which seemed to be my last on earth, 
Keturns the heavenly picture too 

Of all thy love and all thy worth ! 

Thy matchless love, that bore thee up 

Through trials few have heart to brave ; 
That shrank not from the bitter cup 

Of anguish, which my anguish gave ; 
That, while thy noble heart was wrung 

With pity, tenderness, and grief. 
Still o'er my couch of suffering hung, 

To give me comfort and relief. 

A common love might weep and sigh. 

To spare its grief, my presence shun 
And in its weakness let me die. 

Lamented much, but aided none ; 
Thy nobler nature rose above 

All trials, so they gave me aid. 
And on the altar of thy love 

Thy heart a sacrifice was laid. 



TO MY WIFE. 121 

Thy sighs were hushed, thy tears supprest, 

Lest I thy sorrow should diviue ; 
Thy eyes refused their needful rest, 

To watch the fitful sleep of mine ; 
No sharer in a task so dear 

And sacred would thy love allow ; 
By day and night, still hovering near, 

My " MixisTERixG Angel " thou ! 

Thou wast my dearest hope on earth 

Since first I met thy welcome sight ; 
But nevei had I known thy worth 

Till iu aflliction's darkest night : 
Oh, then thy peerless goodness shone, 

A star amid the gloom j^rofound, 
Dispersed the clouds above me thrown. 

And scattered heavenly radiance round. 

The God of mercy heard thy prayer, 

When hope itself receded fast. 
And gave to thy imwearied care 

The life that seemed already past ; 
That life I ever would employ 

To bless thee, and thy love repay, — 
To give thee comfort, peace, and joy, — 

To be thy friend, thy shield, thy stay. 

I will not at the past repine, 

Thouf^h +]ie remembrance wakes a sigh — 



122 BlIE CALLS ME FATIIEK. 

To know the worth of love like thine 
'T were well to suffer or to die ! 

But ah ! at once its Avorth to know 
And to enjoy its fullness, live! 

Ko greater favor heaven can show, 
And earth has nothing more to give. 




SHE CALLS ME FATHER. 

She calls me " father ! " — though my ear 

That thrillmg name shall never hear, 

Yet to my heart affection brings 

The sound in sweet imagmmgs ; 

I feel its gushing music roll 

The stream of rapture on my soul ; 

And when she starts to welcome me, 

And when she totters to my knee, 

And when she climbs it to embrace 

My bosom for a hiding-place, 

And when she nestling there reclines. 

And with her arms my neck entwmes. 

And when her lips of roses seek 

To j)ress their sweetness on my cheek, 

Or when upon my careftil breast 

I lull her to her cherub rest, 

The heart to which I hold my dove 

Swells with miutterable love ! 



MY LITTLE DAUGHTER'S WELCOME. 123 



MY LITTLE DAUGHTER'S WELCOME. 

The world looks pleasantly and bright 

Upon my new-born child ; 
The fields and skies are bathed in light, 

The air is fresh and mild ; 
And it would seem all heaven and earth 
Were gi-acious to my darling's birth ! 

May this her future lot foreshow ! 

Still may her skies be bright ; 
And every scene she treads below 

Be pleasant to her sight. 
So may she live on earth beloved 
And cherished, and by heaven approved ! 

May all that smiles upon her now, 

Smile on her to the end ; 
And Avhen upon her placid brow 

The shades of death descend. 
To everlasting life reborn. 
May she salute a brighter morn ! 



124 A father's dirge. 



A FATHER'S DIRGE. 

My hopes are blighted, and I feel 
An anguish I may not reveal ; 

And. fain I would retire apart 
Where common eyes may not intrude, 
Who care not for the sanctitude 

Of sorrow in a father's heart. 
But I have duties to perform 

To others, who have claims as strong. 
And still must struggle with the storm 
Of life amid the careless throng ; 
And veil the secret of my breast 
With smile for smile, and jest for jest, 
While fain I would sink down to rest 

Beside my darling's clay ! 
Yes — ^for my wife and children's sake, 
I '11 bid my energies awake. 
And nerve the heart that swells to break. 

To be their shield and stay. 

But, oh ! the sorrow, when I come 
From weary work to lonely home. 
To miss that face, whose pleasant sight 



A father's dirge. 125 



Gave to that home a heavenly light ! 
At hour of rest, how sad to miss 
The comfort of her parting kiss ! 
And every morning when I wake 
This lonely heart is nigh to break, 
For ever when I rose from sleep, 

Beside me smiled her cherub face. 
And close and closer she would creep 

To nestle in my heart's eml)race ! 
But now at every wonted spot 
I seek her, and I find her not ; 
Save that at times before my eyes 
Distempered fancy bids her rise 
As last I saw her, night and day 
Gasping her little life away ! 
And then my anguish and despair 
Become too terrible to bear ! 

Yet, my beloved ! though I must mourn, 

And nothing can my grief beguile, 
I should rejoice that thou wast born 

To bless me though but for a while. 
The love that lightened up thy eyes, 

And smiled on thy angelic face, 
Was such a glimpse of Paradise, 

As though but for a little space, 
A sacred influence has left 
Of which we cannot be bereft. 



126 A FATIIEli's DIRGE. 



And tell us what the heavens must be 
That for a moment lent us thee, 
And fires our zeal to persevere 
To meet thee m that better sphere, 
Where yet we trust redeemed to stand 
And lead our darlmg by the hand, 
Thou best of all our hearts held dear ! 

If thou canst see us from above, 
At last thou knowest all the love, 

Nor words nor tears could tell ; 
Thou readest m thy father's heart, 
Of wliich thou wast the dearest part, 

A love unspeakable ! 
And thou dost love me, my sweet child, 
And thy affections from the skies 
Come down to bless me, till I rise 
To meet them pure and undefiled ; 
Oh, let me then be reconciled, 
And conquer passion's bitterness. 

For why should we deplore 
That earth has now one sufferer less. 

And heaven one angel more! 

The sun rose glorious on thy birth. 
As if he welcomed thee to day, 

And shone as glorious, Avhen to earth 
We gave thy cold unconscious clay. 



A father's dirge. 127 

I saw him on his noonday throne, 

In summer's proudest hour, 
And thought of all he looked upon. 

Thou wast the fairest flower ! 
Where art thou now? 

Nay, it is weak, 
'T is wrong, that gloomy grave to seek! — 
Let Faith and Hope unveil the skies 
A moment to affection's eyes ! 
Look up, my soul ! and there behold 
A heavenly form with locks of gold, 
That shade a brow divinely bright, 
And float upon her wings of light ; 
All Paradise is in her face. 
And in her smile celestial grace ; 
She looks upon us from above 
With pity and undying love, 
And gently beckons to her home — 
I come, my Anna ! — soon I come ! 
And till we meet, will strive and pray 
To keep upon the only way, 
Nor more repine that thou dost rest 
Upon a Heavenly Father's breast ! 



128 THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT. 



THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT. 

In the watches of the night, 

When the world is hushed to sleep, 

Comes my anguish strong and deep, 
Like a torrent at its height, 
Rushing with resistless might. 

Every barrier down to sweep ; 
Parts the darkness like a veil. 

And reveals my dying dove, 
With her j^atient face and pale. 

And her sweet blue eyes of love, 
Sadly looking into mine. 
Till they every look resign. 
Now returns the scene of death — 
Slowly gasps away her breath ; 
Now the lips that were my bliss 
Move as for a parting kiss ; 
Now she gives a feeble start. 
As to nestle to my heart ! 

How its breaking fibres thrill ! 
All is over ! — from my sight 
Fades the vision of the night, 

And the night is darker still ! 



THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT. 129 

Day returns— tliou swelling breast, 
Hush ! and liide thy sacred guest ! 

Forth mto the Avorld i go- 
Hollow laugh and ribald jest 

Kound me bandy to and fro ; 
And I look and list the while 
With a forced and feeble smile, 

Bitter mockery of woe ! 
Common talk of common things, 
Like the buzz of insect wings. 
Brushes o'er my weary mind. 
And I answer in some kind, 

What I hardly care or know. 

Kay, my soul, this is not well ! 

Rouse thee from thy stern, despair, 
Crush the thoughts that would rebel, 

Nobly bear what thou must bear ! 
Leave it to the common crew 

In their sorrow to be weak ; — 

In the might of anguish seek 
Mio-ht to bear and might to do ; 
Gather up thy inmost strength— 

To some earnest task apply ; 
So shalt thou escape at length 

Thoui^hts that else would bid mc die ! 



130 THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT. 

Thou from whom all blessings came ! 
Thou who dost at will reclaim ! 
Thou who the Great Father art, 
And in every parent's breast 
Strongest feelings hast imprest, 
Sweetest, purest, holiest. 
Yet canst rend a parent's heart, 
Snaj^ping all its links apart ! 
Thou who didst the boon bestow, 

Once my comfort, hope, and pride. 
Yet removed it at a blow — 

May that blow be sanctified ! 
Though my heart is sorely tried — 

Though my hoj^es are in the dust. 
In Tliy wisdom I confide. 

In Thy boundless mercy trust ! 



MY BOY. 131 



MY BOY. 

My boy ! my boy ! what hopes and fears 
Are prophets of thy future years ! 
How many smiles — how many tears 

Shall glisten o'er this face ! 
This eye, so innocently bright, 
May kindle with a wilder light. 

In pleasure's maddening chase : 
This brow, where quiet fancies lie. 
May proudly lift itself on high, 

In fierce ambition's race ; 
This form, so beautiful, so blithe. 
May waste in sickness, or may writhe 

In agony's embrace ; 
This cheek may lose its healthful blush. 
For sorrow's languor, passion's flush. 

Or thought's corrosive trace ; — 
But of all evils that may come. 
My prayer the most would shield thee from 

The guilty or the base. 
Thy heritage is but my name ; 
Then prize its purity of fame. 

And shield it from disgrace ; 



132 MY BOY. 

And if that name have some renown, 
May it be tliuie a brighter cro^\ni 

Upon it yet to place ! 
For should a prouder wreath be thine 

Than ever was or shall be mine, 

The more will be my joy — 
The vanity of fame I 've found ; 
Still could I wish its laurels crowned. 

My boy! my only boy! 

And yet, should genius never roll 
Its insj)iration on thy soul, 

Nor gift thee with the might 
To image such creations forth 
As crown the " Mmstrel of the North," * 

Imjoerishably bright ; 
Or with a Shakspeare's muse of fire 
Ul3 to the highest heaven aspire. 

The sun of every sight — 
If science shall not in thy mind 
Unfold a beacon to mankind. 

Amid the mental night ; 
Or if thy arm shall never wield 
A hero's sword, on conquest's field, 

To guard thy country's right — 
If all the glorious hopes be vain 
That often float athwart my brain 

* Walter Scott. 



A VALENTINE TO :\rY WIFE. 133 

In visions of delight — 
Still thou as fully canst complete 
The hope — of all most dear and sweet 

That may my mind employ — 
All other wreaths I can resign, 
So virtue's trophies may be thine, 

My boy ! my only boy ! 



A VALENTINE TO MY WIFE. 

Twelve years ago ! how swift their flight, 

Since first thy fate was linked with mine ; 
How much they brought of dark or bright 
To crown thy love, or prove its might. 
My faithful Valentine ! 

Twelve years ago, my chosen bride ! 

How proud was I to call thee mine ! 
But more my love, and more my pride. 
Since years on years thy worth have tried, 
My precious Valentine ! 



134 A VALENTINE TO MY WIFE. 

It may be sorrow and despair 

At times have wrmig tliis heart of mine ; 
But to thy love I could repair, 
And find my j^eace and solace there, 
My sweetest Valentine ! 

And every joy that I may know, 

When kinder fortune seems to shine, 
Wms from thy smile a brighter glow — 
To see thee happy makes me so. 
My dearest Valentine ! 

Sweet mother of the cherub boy. 

Round whom our fondest hopes entwine ! 
May he his coming years employ 
To be thy comfort, j^ride, and joy, 
And bless my Valentine ! 



MJT BABE. 135 



MY BABE. 

My babe ! my own, my precious babe ! 

When I behold thy charms, 
And look upon the mother sweet 

That folds thee in her arms. 
It seems to me as I possessed 

The richest treasures here — 
For she is best of all the best, 

Thou, dearest of the dear ! 

My babe ! I have but little store 

Of what most mortals prize ; 
And thousands pranked in pomp and pride 

My humbler lot despise — 
Yet thinking of my wife and child, 

A prouder head I rear. 
Blest with the best of all the best 

And dearest of the dear ! 

My babe ! thou hast no heritage 

Except thy flither's name. 
Which in misfortune's worst despite 

Has won its way to fume ; 



136 MY BABE. 

And fame is only precious, that 
It serves the lot to cheer 

Of these, the best of all the best, 
And dearest of the dear. 

My babe ! if all my little store 

Should in a moment end. 
Should slander blast thy father's flime- 

Forsake him every friend, — 
Thy mother spared and thou, his head 

Above the storm would rear, 
Blest with the best of all the best, 

And dearest of the dear ! 

My babe ! in all thy path of life 

Thy mother's steps pursue. 
And let the pattern of her worth 

Be ever in thy view ; 
So shall thy father's heart be glad 

And proud of thy career. 
And thou be best of all the best, 

And dearest of the dear ! 



MY DARLING LITTLE MARY. 137 



MY DARLING LITTLE MARY. 

When cliildhood shall have flown aAvay, 

And youth its bloom shall lend thee, 
May all the bHss of childhood's day 

And innocence attend thee ; 
Nor may a heart so pure and blest 

For guilt or sorrow vary, 
That now are strangers to thy breast, 

My darlmg little Mary. 

When beauty's glow is on thee thrown, 

May it be thy endeavor 
Not outward charms to win alone. 

But those that perish never. 
Since all the charms that meet the eye 

Are not more bright than airy. 
Be thine the charms that never die, 

My darlmg Uttle Mary. 

On earth may Mary long repay 

The fondness of a mother ; 
And from this world when called away 

By death to seek another. 
May angels her pure spirit bear 

To bliss that cannot vary. 
And may a mother welcome there 

Her darling little Mary ! 



138 THE mother's PRIDE. 



THE MOTHER'S PRIDE. 

Yes, she is beautiful indeed ! 

The soft blue eyes, the golden hair, 
The brow where pleasant thoughts we read, 

The radiant smile, the winning air, 
The cherub form of perfect grace. 

Whose fairy steps in music glide — 
And oh ! that sweet, that heavenly fice ! 

Well may she be her mother's pride ! 

Yet may she nobler pride awake 

Than all external charms impart ; 
'T is not alone for beauty's sake 

We hold her in our inmost heart — 
Her sunny soul, her spotless mind. 

Where comes no thought to shun or hide, 
Her artless love, her feelings kind. 

Have made her more her mother's pride. 

Then come to me, my blue-eyed child, 

And bending o'er my shoulder, fling 
Thy golden tresses, rolling wild. 

In many a soft and sunny ring ! 
Look up in fondness to my face. 

And thine upon my bosom hide, — 
Close — closer, to my heart's embrace. 

My sweetest joy! — my fondest pride! 



THE FONT. 139 

THE FONT. 

No boon that fortune can impart 

May with a gracious child compare ; 
It winds into the parent's heart, 

And twines with every fibre there. 

When to my arms my children spring, 

Or on my breast their heads recline. 
Or to my lips of love they cluag, 

No joy on earth can equal mine. 

Yet e'en on these so fair and dear. 

Whose looks are more of heaven than earth. 

Some shadow will at times appear, 

Some stain that speaks of mortal birth. 

But there is an immortal stream 

That cleanseth every stain away; 
And where those living waters gleam. 

All darkness brightens into day. 

And thither we our children bring, 

To Him who said, " Forbid them not ! " 

That He within that sacred spring. 

May cleanse their souls from every spot. 

Saviour of all ! who in the charms 

Of childhood once this Avorld hast trod ! 

We bring our treasures to Thy arms. 
And dedicate them to our God ! 



140 THE NA]\[ESAKE. 



THE NAMESAKE. 

I HAVE a little daughter 

Is only two years old, 
Her eyes are blue as heaven, 

Her locks like sunny gold ! 
Her soft and fair complexion 

Might every heart enthrall, 
But 't is her sweet affection 

I value more than all ; 
For dearly does she love me, 

And in my heart I hold 
My charmmg little daughter, 

That 's only two years old. 

In other years to bless me 

A youthful vision came, 
As lovely and bewitching 

As one who bears her name ; 
And while upon my daughter 

I look with fondest gaze. 
Again returns the vision 

That blest my early days ! 
While nestling on my bosom 

Looks up her face serene. 
It seems that God restores me 

My long-lost Josephine ! 



THE NAMESAKE. 141 

Oh ! that it were no vision ! 

That I might near thee stand. 
Again thy fairy fingers 

To clasp in friendship's hand ! 
Oh, wert thou but a moment 

Returned to my embrace ! 
Oh, that I but a moment 

Could see thee face to face ! 
Look in thy eyes' blue heaven, 

The golden curls remove. 
And press on thy pure forehead 

The seal of perfect love ! 



142 ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG SISTER. 



ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG SISTER. 

But yesterday a child of pain, 

That saddened i^ity's eye — 
To-day, a seraph called to reign 

Above the stars on high ! 
Well might the suffermg move our tears. 

Which she endured below ; 
But now that heaven her soul inspheres, 

Those tears should cease to flow. 

Why should we her release deplore 

From fate's relentless arm ? 
Why grieve that she shall grieve no more ? 

As if we wished her harm ! 
Away with the repining tear. 

The ingrate sigh forbear. 
Which if she up in heaven could hear, 

Would grieve her even there ! 

Yet Nature's voice, more mighty far 

Than all the rest can say. 
Still calls us from the radiant star, 

Down to the mouldering clay ; 



ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG SISTER. 143 

And not in words the magic lies, 

To calm the anguish wild, 
Of one whose lonely heart replies, — 

" It was my child ! my child ! " 

And God, who knows a mother's heart — 

Permits a mother's tears. 
When from the cherub doomed to part, 

The holiest tie endears ; 
And Jesus an example gave, 

All feeling hearts accept ; 
Weep on — for at Affection's grave, 

The Peixce of Gloey wept ! 

That we have lost her we may weep ; 

Yet knowing she is blest — 
That all her cares are hushed to sleep 

Upon her Saviour's breast — 
That thought vnih its consoling power, 

Amid our tears shall gleam. 
Like rainbow in a summer shower. 

Or moonlight on a stream. 

Her calm submission to the rod. 

Which made all else repine. 
Revealed her as a child of God, 

While yet on earth, divine ! 
With sweetest thoughts of heavenly birth. 

Her sainted mind was fed. 



144 ON THE DEATH OF A YOUJN^G SISTEK. 

Which lluiig a glory, not of earth, 
Around her clyuig bed ! 

May we from her example learn 

Submission to our lot. 
And to the Kock of Ages turn, 

Whose promise faileth not ! 
So shall our sorrows pave the way 

To the eternal home, 
Where our beloved has gone to-day, 

And seems to whisper, " Come ! " 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



TO CHARLES DICKENS. 

Fkiekd of my heart ! — friend of the human race ! 
Though I may never gaze upon thy face, 
Nor clasp the hand that has such wonders penned ; 
Yet when entranced by thy prevailing spell, 
I watch the ebbing life of gentle Paul^ 
Or looking up, as at an angel's call, 
Pursue the heavenward flight of '-'■Little Nell^ " 
Heart leaps to heart, and I embrace my Fkiend ! 

It hath been given to thy hand to trace 
AU that is good and glorious in our race ; 
As with an " angel's ken" thou hast divined 
The riches in the human heart enshrined ; 
Crowns, sceptres, laurel wreaths, or robes of state. 
Thy genius needs not to reveal the great. 

Greatness is only greatness in itself^ — 
It rests not in externals, nor its worth 



148 TO CHAELES DICKENS. 

Derives from gorgeous pomp, or glittering pelf, 
Or chance of arms, or accident of birth ; • 

It lays its deep foundations in the soul. 
And piles a tower of virtues to the skies, 

Around whose pinnacle majestic, roll 

The clouds of glory, starred with angel eyes ! 

Such is the lofty lesson thou hast taught. 
But still diviner blessings hast thou Avrought ; 
Like light from heaven, thy genius has unveiled 
Aifection's dee23est mystery of grief. 
And to despairing sorrow brought relief, 
Where reason and philosophy had failed. 
By opening the fountains of the heart : 
And therefore distant strangers give thee part 
In their affections, as a household guest. 
Who shares the sacred secret of their breast. 

There is a sorrow that can never die ; 

There is a loss we never can forget. 
Yet can it purify and sanctify. 

And mingle heavenly solace with regret ; 
And therefore do we love thee and thy page. 
Which moves our tears, but moves them to assuage ; 
And therefore do I hail thee as my friend. 

And yield the tribute of a grateful heart ; 
Though humble is the offering I send. 

Affection may some little worth impart. 



PASSING THE ClIUKCII. 149 



PASSING THE CHURCH. 

Oft as I j^ass St. Thomas' Churcli, 

A kiiidly glance I throw 
Where sleeps a friend I daily met, 

" Some twenty years ago. " 

And thinking of those happy times, 

As slowly past I wend, 
I scarce forbear to touch my hat. 

And say, " Good mornmg, friend ! " 

Nor is it with uncheerful mind 

That I his memory greet — 
More years have past since we have met 

Than shall before we meet. 

And sweetly placid seems his rest. 

Though near his silent bed 
The tide of life rolls thundermg by. 

As it would wake the dead. 

Who knows but yet some consciousness 

May linger under ground ? 
Who knows but yet, with genial smile. 

He looks on all around ? 



150 PASSING THE CHURCH. 

The busy throngs, beset with cares 

It once was his to know — 
The dashing belles, who rival those 

He loved so long ago. 

And hark the heavy tramp of steeds — 
Of men the measured tread — 

The clang of trumps — the roll of drums — 
Wake, soldier ! — lift thy head ! 

Bright weapons glitter in the sun ; 

Proud banners flout the sky ; 
Up, soldier ! mount thy jDrancing steed. 

And wave thy sword on high ! 

In vain — Earth could not tempt him back 
With all that i^leased him best — 

For better worth than all she gave. 
His calm and quiet rest ! 

And, therefore, in the city's midst. 

Serenely doth he lie, 
Regardless of the storm of life 

That rushes madly by. 

For me — far from the city's din. 

Be mine some rustic tomb. 
Where trees shall wave above the sod, 

And flowers around it bloom. 



PASSING THE CIIUKCII. 151 

Life's bustling scenes have been to me 

But scenes of pain and care — 
I would not have them round my bed, 

When I am sleeping there ! 

Yet friendly steps will seek my grave, 

Wherever that may be ; 
And loving lij^s shall bless my name, 

As now — unheard by me ! 

No want of fervent tears or prayers, 

Could those recall me here — 
But what can love or friendship say 

To death's regardless ear ? 

Up, Poet ! — Glory bids thee rise ! — 

Death shall not keep thee down ! 
Up, Poet ! — strike the harp divine, 

And wear the immortal crown ! 

Rise ! — Earth restores all thou hast lost — 

Fame — fortune — beauty's smile ! 
Unheeded proffers ! — though the last 

Might tempt me for a while ! 

But speak not thoii^ my chosen one I 

Of all beloved the best ! 
For Love is stronger than the grave ! 

And thine would break niv rest ! 



152 THE BEST OF COUNSEL. 

THE BEST OF COUNSEL 

TO THE BEST OF GIRLS. 

Now heed my words, my precious girl ! — 

Affection is the richest pearl, 

Nor lightly should be thrown away 

On those who cannot love repay; 

Beware to whom thou shalt impart 

That priceless jewel of the heart! 

Care not alone for form or face, 

Or winning words or witching grace ; 

But choose thou one whose honored name 

Thou canst be proud to share and claim; 

Let it be one of cultured mind, 

Of generous thoughts and feehngs kind. 

Who never sought, nor e'er would seek 

To wrong the helpless or the weak, 

But ever would employ his best 

To shield the friendless and opprest ; 

Who proudly treads temptation down, 

Nor sinks at fortune's darkest frown ; 

Whose equal soul and mind sedate 

Can stand vmmoved each change of fate ; 

Whose faith is firm, whose honor bright. 

Whose love is an immortal li^-ht ! 

Such were the love, and such alone, 

That can be worthy of thy own! 



TO GEKTllUDE. 153 



TO GERTRUDE. 

I LOYE thee ! — need I say it now ? 

ISTot for the eye of heavenly l>hie, 
X ot for the fan* transparent brow 

AYhich azure streams meander through, - 
The roseate cheek, the raven curls 

That round the breathmg marble dance,- 
For those adorn a thousand gh-ls 

Who scarce attract my passing glance ! 
Though thine is beauty's foirest flower, 

And all the magic she imparts, 
It is not that which gives thee power 

To wind into my heart of hearts ! 

I love thee for thy gentle mind 

Where thought of evil hath no place. 
Thy grateful heart, thy feelmgs kind, 

Thy modesty's bewitching grace ! 
Thy pure affection's welcome rusli, 

That laves my fevered soul in bland 
Refreshment, like the fountain's gush 

To Arabs 'mid the burnins; sand. 



154 TO GERTEUDE. 

I love thee by my perfect trust 

In that affection's perfect truth ; 
My hoj)es have crumbled oft m dust, 

And friends have failed me from my youth ; 
Though time may common hearts estrange, 

And common friends their ties may break, 
There is a heart can never change, 

A friend that never will forsake ! 

I love thee — not with passion's fire, 

But the devotion pure and high, 
A guardian seraph might inspire. 

Who came with comfort from the sky! 
There is a blight upon my heart, 

A hopeless sorrow on my mind — 
But Gkrtkude ! dearest ! where thou art 

I seem the peace of heaven to find ! 

Oh may the peace of heaven be thine, 

Sweet Gerteude ! be what may my lot ! 
When life and thee I must resign, 

Remember — yet lament me not ! 
E'en then be happy in the thought 

That thou hast loved me to the end ; 
For thou hast been the boon I sought, — 

A chosen and a faithful friend ! 



WOMAT^'S MINISTKY. 155 



WOMAN'S MINISTRY. 

'T IS true that love's romantic dreams 
Are bright as heaven's opening gleams, 
And give to life a charm divine, 
That wisdom sorrows to resign; 
Yet much they err who seek in this 
The only or the highest bliss, 
Or deem that woman's noblest part 
Is but to give and win a heart. 
This angel (such in all but wings) 
Was born for higher, holier things, 
And best her ministry fiilfills 
In smoothing life's pervading ills. 
'T is hers to soothe the troubled mind, 
'T is hers the broken heart to bind. 
To turn the erring soul to prayer. 
And snatch the sinner from despair ; 
To hover round affliction's bed. 
With angel look and fairy tread ; 
Receive aifection's dying breath, 
And seal the cherished eyes in death ! 
And all the while forbear to show 
The sorrows God alone can know ! 
The spirit thus sublimes the clay, 
All selfish taint refines away. 
Till too divine to be concealed. 
The perfect angel stands revealed ! 



156 WALTER SCOTT AND WASHINGTON IKYING. 



WALTER SCOTT AND WASHINGTON IRVING, 

God "bless tliec, Walter Scott ! 

For tlioii hast blest mankind, 
And flung upon their lot 

The brightness of thy mind, 
And filled the soul with pleasures . 

None other can impart. 
And stored the mind with treasures, 

And purified the heart. 

Shame on them who abuse 

Their gifts of peerless price, 
And prostitute the muse 

To passion or to vice ! 
Who pour into the mind 

The bitterness and gall 
Which makes us hate mankind. 

Ourselves, and heaven, and all ! 
We leave their withering page, 

For tJiine^ with healing rife, 
The fevered soul assuage. 

And drink the stream of life ! 
Thy shrine is virtue's altar. 

Thy fame without a blot ; 
God bless thee, dear Sir Walteti ! 

God bless thee, Walter Scott ! 



Ik 
WALTER SCOTT AKD WASHINGTON IRVING 157 

One only son of light 

Attends thy cloudless path, 
In i3urity as bright 

As thy own spirit hath ; 
To charm away distress, 

To comfort, to delight. 
To teach, to aid, to bless, 

He shares thy wizard might ! 
His muse from virtue's shrine 

Hath never turned astray, 
Nor ever breathed a line 

That love could wish away ; 
The temple of the free 

Is radiant with his fame. 
His country's glory he — 

And Irvixg is his name . 

God's blessings on ye both ! 

Twin heirs ,of glory's prize ! 
HoAV often when I loath 

All that around me lies, — 
When in the crowded world 

I feel myself alone, 
From all communion hurled 

That by the rest is known, 
Debarred, by fate's control. 

From every human sound, 
And burviiiix mv soul 



158 WALT:eR SCOTT AND WASHINGTON lEVING. 

In solitude profound — 
Oh, then, ye glorious pair ! 

I seek the world ye give, 
And find a kindred there 

With whom I love to live, 
Your precious magic nerving 

My soul to bear its lot — 
God bless thee, gentle Irving ! 

God bless thee, Walter Scott ! 



THE BELL SONG. ]59 



THE BELL SOXG. 

PARTLY FROil THE LIED VON DER GLOCKE. 

Above the scenes of earthly labor, 

In heaven's clear vault, the blue, the bright. 
She swmgs on high, the thunder's neighbor. 

And borders on the world of Ught, 
Where roll the stars in circling mazes, 

Her voice responding to their song. 
While they repeat their Maker's praises, 

And lead the crowned year along. 

Her iron tongue, in earnest measure, 

Speaks of the solemn and sublune. 
And hourly warns us of the treasure 

We hourly waste, unvalued time ! 
To destiny a voice imparting. 

She swings, its changes to proclaim. 
And hither, thither, swiftly starting, 

Keeps time to life's inconstant game. 

Rmg out ! ring out a joyous greetmg, 

In welcome to the lovely child, 
Whose little heart begins its beating 

In slumber's arms, the undefilcd ! 



160 ■ THE BELL SONG. 

His future lot of gloom or splendor 
Is curtained from his vision tender ; 
A mother's love, her best adorning, 
Keeps watch upon his golden morning. 

Years speed like darts — for scenes of strife 

Proud youth fi'om girlhood fiercely sunders. 
Plunges mto the storms of life. 

And wanders through the world of wonders ; 
A stranger to his father's home 

Returning, lo ! in youthful splendor, 
All-glorious as an angel come 

From heaven, with bashful look and tender. 
And blushing hke the orient skies. 

The maiden stands before his eyes ! 

His heart is seized with nameless yearning ; 

He turns aside ; alone he strays ; 
His eyes with sudden tears are burning ; 

Again he turns to seek her gaze, 
And blushingly her pathway traces 

Until her greethig makes him blest ; 
He seeks the fairest flower, and places 

Its beauty on her fairer breast ! 

Young love ! what longing hopes unfoldeth 

Thy golden time ! what joys of jmce ! 
The eye an open heaven beholdeth. 



THE BELL SONG. IGl 

And swells the heart in Paradise ! 
Young love ! ah, couldst thou ever nourish 
The golden dream ! for ever flourish ! 

Let him, enthralled by passion strong, 

Approve, before the lasting union. 

If heart with heart is in communion ; 
The dream is short, repentance long ! 

King out ! rmg out ! for triumph blesses 

The youth who by the altar stands. 
And lovely m the young bride's tresses 

The nuptial wreath entwines its bands. 
Alas ! that life's enraptured fire 

Should w^ith the May of life decay, 
The fairy dreams of young desire 

With veil and girdle rent away ! 

Flits passion's hour ; 

Yet love remaineth, 
A ripening flower 

Which truth sustaineth. 
Into hostile life 

Man forth must enter ; 
In toil and strife 

Ills thoughts must centrrj ; 
In planting and makhig. 
Pursuing and taking. 



162 THE BELL SONG. 

Risking and daring, 
Plotting and caring, 
And running his race 
In fortune's chase. 

He prospers : — fortune rolls a boundless tide ; 
His stores increase ; expands his dwelling wide ; 

And therein ruleth 
The matron chaste. 

The children's mother, 
With wisdom graced ; 

In her circle moving, 

Smiling or reprovmg. 

The little girl directing, 

The little boy correcting. 

She plies her busy fingers 

With work that never Hngers ; 

Her husband's gains increases 

With toil that never ceases, 
And fiUs the closets with fragrant stores. 
And spins at the wheel that rolls and snores, 
And piles the wardrobe's well-polished row 
With the shining wool, and the flax of snow, 
And joms Avith the showy the useful ever, 
And resteth — never ! 

The father with a glance of pride 

Looks from his far-extended dwelling. 



THE BELL SONG. 163 

And counts his gains on every side, 

And views his stores Avith treasures swellino: : 
Then boasting lifts his haughty hand — 
" Firm as the earth's foundations stand, 
Against misfortune's rudest shock. 
My house is founded on a rock ! " 
Vain boast ! who can resist an liour 
To destiny's ahnighty power ! 

Ring out ! a fearful peal ring out. 
To second terror's frantic shout ! 

Hark ! the crashincf thunder 

Rends the skies asunder ! 
Lightnings quiver, flash, and shiver, 
And roll thi ough heaven a blazing river ; 
Earth reflects the burning flood. 
Glow the skies as red as blood, 

But not with glow of day ; 
Yet the night is glaring bright 
As the sun's meridian lioht : 
The clamor of dismay 

Higher swells and higher ; 
Loud and loud the bell is rung. 
Flies the cry from tongue to tongue, 
"Fire! fire! fire!" 

Lo I a pyramid of flame 
Fierce as if from hell it came, 



104 THE BELL SONG. 

Clouds of smoke around it curled, 
Soars as if to show the world 

Creation's funeral pyre ! 
Lo ! unconquerably strong 
Rolls the burning flood along, 
While the air around its path 
Glows as with an oven's wrath — 

Fire! fire! fire! 

Sinks the roof and totters wall. 

Pillars shake and columns fall ; 

Treasure won by toil of years 

In a moment disappears ; 

All are running, rushing, flying. 

Shouting, shrieking, trembling, crying ; 

Beneath the smoking ruins crushed 

The beast is moaning, 

The child is groaning. 
Till both in sufibcation hushed. 

But steady stand an active band — 
The buckets fly fi*om hand to hand. 
And from the toiling engine rushes 
A cataract in showery gushes : 

In vain — in vain — 

The splashing rain 
The mighty clement devours 
In scorn; — then gathering up its powers 

As if from laboring earth 



THE BELL SONG. 105 

A Titan struggled into birtb, 

Towers giant-like on high ; 
And helpless, to its godlike strength 
Man yields the hopeless strife at length, 

And stands all idly by, 
While the possessions, late liis trust. 
Melt like a shriveled scroll in dust. 

One backward glance he calmly throws 

Upon his fortune's grave, 
Then turns aAvay in stern repose. 

His coming fate to brave. 
Though destiny her power has proved, 

She spares him still the best of blisses ; 
lie counts the heads of his beloved. 

And lo ! not one dear head he misses ! 

Ring out ! ring out ! 

Sad and slow 
Tolls the bell 

The dirge of woe, 
In solemn train, a band of mourning friends 
A wanderer to the home of all attends. 
Alas ! the wife ! the fond, the cherished ! 
The faithful mother ! she has perished ! 
From her husband's arms for ever 
The Prince of Terrors bids lier sever, 
And bears her with his shadowy hand, 



166 THE BELL SONG. 

From amid the tender band, 
Which she in blooming beauty bore 
To him, Avhom she may bless no more ; 
And on her bosom nom-ishing, 
Watched enraptured flourishing, 
With the love, the pride, the pleasure, 
Mother-hearts alone can measure. 

Ah, tender ties of home ! ye sever ! 

For she who was the house's mother 
In bed of darkness sleeps for ever, 

And now her place receives another ! 
Poor orphans ! where her gentle guidance ? 

Her tender care all else above ? 
All ! where she ruled a stranger ruleth, 

Whose love is — not a mother's love ! * 

Ring out ! ring out ! a peal of dread ! 

Sound trumpet ! thunder drum ! 
Wake — rise — prepare for battle's bed ! 

The foe ! they come ! they come ! 
All start in a bewildered dream. 
And woman's shriek, and childhood's scream 

Half drown the bell's alarms ; 
While youth and manhood hasten out, 

* Thus far I have done little more than paraphrase select passages 
from the German poem. What follows, I have added to complete the 
idea I had in view. 



THE BELL SONG. 1G7 

And rush, and run, and storm, and shout — 
" To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! " 

A thousand torches scatter light 

On scenes of fury or affright ; 

While women, with disheveled hair 

And wringing hands, dart here and there, 

And weej) and clamor, loud and wild. 

All helpless as the wondering child ; 

Or others with seraphic eye 

Look up, and trust in God on high. 

Pale, breathless, silent, and sublime. 

Like statue of the Grecian time ! 

And others bowed in weepmg prayer, 

Livoke a heavenly Father's care. 

Good God ! who would not die for these — 
The cherub child that clasps our knees. 

The wife of angel charms. 
The virgin, fresh in beauty's glow. 
The home, our Paradise below — 

To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! 

A thousand mingled weapons clasn 
And quiver in the torch's flash ; 
Some grasp the sword, the musket some, 
The axe, the spade, whate'er may come 

To the unfurnished hand : 
Staff, club, or missile — all may serv( 



168 'niE BELL SOIs^G. 

No weapon but the arm can nerve 
To guard its native land. 

Hark ! tlie storm of battle ! 

Guns and cannons thunder 

As earth would rend asunder; 
Bullets whiz and rattle, 

Showermg death around ; 

Thousands press the ground, 
And groan away their souls ; 

Every sword is ruddy, 

Every hand is bloody, 
And Carnage o'er the field her iron chariot rolls. 

See the foe recedmg 

From the victor's might ; 
See the hero leading 

To pursue their flight ; 
See the warrior bleeding, 
Struggling still to fight — 
On the field disabled lying, 
See he grasps his weapon dying, 

Shoutmg, while from the battle storm, 
The foes, confusedly flying. 

Trample upon his mangled form. 
Lightnings flashing from the eyes 
Closed in death that soon shall be, 
"Victory! 
Yictorv!" 



THE BELL SONG. 

AT\"ay lie springs 
On conquest's wings, 
And in the bright embrace of glory dies ! 

Ring out ! ring out a solemn peal, 
While to the King of kings we kneel. 

Through whom our arms prevail ! 
Each soldier bends his laureled brow, 
And bows the knee no foe could bow — 
Hail ! God of Armies ! hail ! 

Around him kneel the wife, the mother, 
The child, caressing each the other; 

Their cheeks, but now so pale. 
With triumph flushing, while their eyes 
In rapture swimming seek the skies — 

Hail! God of Glory! hail! 

King out ! a glorious peal ring out ! 
While Hke a rushing storm we rise. 
And stand erect, and rend the skies 

With one triumphant shout ! 
Hurrah ! 

Rmg out ! ring out in tone sublime — 

How aw^ul swells the glorious chime ! 

While blending with its tones, we raise 

To God one choral song of praise, 

To God, the Father of the free, 

Who giveth us the victory ! 



1C9 



170 MY CHILDHOOD. 



MY CHILDHOOD. 

"WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FIFTEEN. 

My childhood scenes! oh, where are they? 

I now am but m boyhood's years, 
Yet on no scene my glance can stray 

To memory one trace endears 

Of childhood's smiles, or childhood's tears ; 
I look at every spot so strange, — 

So altered now, — and then I say, 
While pained my heart remarks the change, 

" My childhood scenes ! oh, where are they ? " 

My childhood friends ! oh, where are they ? 

The dearest in the grave recline. 
And others, long estranged away, 

Forget they e'er were friends of mine; 

And yet I never can resign 
The memory of even such 

As least repaid affection's sway ; 
But still this thought my soul must touch, 

" My childhood friends! oh, where are they?" 



MY CHILDHOOD. 171 

My cliilclhood joys! oh, where are they? 

And where the innocence, which gave 
To every joy its pnrest ray? 

Those joys have found an early grave ; — 

That innocence ! — oh could I save 
The innocence of childhood's hour, 

N"ot thus should I be sorrow's prey, 
Nor sigh beneath affliction's shower, 

" My childhood joys ! oh, where are they?" 

Where is my childhood now? and where 

Shall be my youth? — its every joy? 
Its every scene ? — But spare, oh spare 

Its friends, though time aU. else destroy! 

And if some feehngs yet employ 
My mmd, which heaven may pure esteem. 

Oh ! may I not the horror bear 
To say, when launched on manhood's stream, 

" Where are such feeUngs now ! oh, where ? " 



172 TO COEDELIA. 

TO CORDELIA. 

Bright eyes, fail- tresses, cherub faces. 
And forms that paragon the Graces, 
Are found in twenty thousand places. 

But for a mmd of gifted splendor, 
A heart confiding, true, and tender. 
The world has very few to render. 

Those treasures are to thee imparted. 
For thou on hfe's career hast started, 
With gifted mind and open-hearted. 

A name is thine that lives for ages. 

And every sympathy engages. 

On Shakspeare's consecrated pages. 

Cordelia ! true and faithful ever, 
Whose love and duty wavered never ! 
Her sainted name shall live for ever! 

And all that we in her admire. 
Should duty call or love require. 
Thy generous bosom will inspire. 

But may no grief like hers attend thee. 
But every joy that earth can lend thee, 
And every good that heaven can send thee. 

Come to my heart ! and closer pressing, 
Receive, if it be worth possessing, 
A poet's love, a poet's blessing. 



ALOXE. 

Nay, ask not of the secret grief 

That burns my heart away, 
For what admits of no relief 

'T is useless to betray ; 
One cause for gloom might well appear, 

Were all the rest unknown — 
Where'er I am, whoe'er be near, 

I am alone ! — alone ! 

At times I seek some festive place. 

Where gay companions throng. 
While pleasure brightens every face 

With laugh, and jest, and song ; 
But lost to me the cheerful soimd, 

Unheard the kindly tolie. 
And with a thousand friends around 

I am alone ! — alone ! 

Yet there is one Avho had a charm 

My sadness to dispel. 
When round me twined her gentle arm, 

With love no words could tell, — 
A love that seemed to have no will 

Or wdsh except my o^\ti — 
Oh, Clara ! might I meet thee still, 

T should not feel alone! 



\ 



17-1 THE DIFFERENCE. 

Young, beautiful, and innocent, 

Her very sight could bless ! 
Her looks, than words more eloquent, 

Did all her thoughts express; 
And then I did not feel the curse 

That on my lot is thrown ; 
For soul with soul did we converse, 

And I was not alone ! 

But Youth is still a thing of light 

And joy. — 'SVhj should I doom 
A cherub God has made so bright. 

To share my lonely gloom ? 
Though all the comfort thou couldst lend, 

That may to me be knowai. 
Go, Clara ! seek some happier friend, 

And leave me all alone ! 



THE DIFFERENCE. 

Man strides along through thick and thin, 
Through miry shame and thorny sin ; 
With careless hand the thorn or spot 
He brushes oif, and all 's forgot ; 
But woman, soft and delicate. 
At every step must hesitate — 
The fallen man again can soar, 
But woman falls, to rise no more. 



THE PEARL-HANDLED KNIFE. 175 



THE PEARL-IIANDLED KNIFE. 

A LITTLE boy sits by his mother's tomb, 
And ^vaters the flowers that above her bloom, 
With tears that flow from his orphaned heart. 
Sobbing as if it would burst apart. 

He looks around with a glance of fear, 

To see that no ruthless eye is near, 

Then draws from his bosom his cherished toy, 

His mother's last gift to her own dear boy: 

It was a knife with a silver blade, 

And of mother-of-pearl was the handle made. 

That little boy has a step-dame stern. 
Whose evil feelings against him burn ; 
Though once on the orphan boy she smiled. 
And kindly treated her husband's child ; 
But a change was on her feelings thrown 
AVhen she had a little babe of her own, 
For she loved her babe with a love so great. 
Her love for the orphan was turned to hate : 
For it was thought she could not bear 
That Edwm should be his fothcr's heir; 



176 THE PEAEL-HANDLED KNIFE. 

" And all would be for my child," she said, 
In her guilty heart, " were but Edwin dead ! " 

Oh ! a mother's love is a holy thing ! 

But even from good may evil S2:)ring, 

And they who would love with a sinless love. 

Must set their affections on things above, 

Nor ever, for perishing things of clay. 

From God and his law be led astray. 

Poor Edwin ! he found it a cruel change, 
For all was bitter and all was strange ; 
Now first in his life he felt and heard 
The passionate blow and the angry word. 
And knew not what it could mean the while, 
For he had been ruled by look and smile. 

His father had gone abroad for a time 
To gather wealth in a distant clime. 
And Edwin was left in his step-dame's power, 
Who beat and abused him every hour. 
But once in a day the orj^han fed. 
And then on a bone or a crust of bread ; 
His strength decayed, and a fever came, 
But it made no change in the ruthless dame ; 
She spurned him up as he sunk on the floor, 
From which he gladly would rise no more ; 
And she made him work like the A^eriest slave- 
How he longed to rest in his mother's grave ! 



THE PEAKL-IIANDLED KNIFE. IW 

To that mother's grave he crawled one day, 
When he thought the dreaded eye away, 
And told her unconscious ear tlie wrons: 
Her poor little boy had endured so long ; 
Then drew from a secret slit in his vest 
The only comfort he yet possest ; 
It was a knife with a silver blade, 
And of mother-of-pearl was the handle made. 

Alas ! for the cruel step-dame was near, 

And heard what he meant for his mother's ear ; 

On her evil mhid temptation flashed : 

At a blow the boy to the earth she dashed, — 

She snatched the knife Avith a sudden start. 

And buried the blade in the orphan's heart. 

She opened the door of his mother's tomb. 
And thrust him down in that place of gloom ; 
She hastened home and she laughed so wild — 
" Come kiss me ! all is your own, my child ! " 

A month elapsed, and the father came. 
And kissed his babe and his smiling dame ; 
But when he asked for his pretty boy. 
To deepest sorrow it changed his joy; 
" The child," she said, " of a fever died, 
And was buried at his mother's side. " 

A year and another passed away, 

And the babe grew lovelier every day: 

8* 



178 THE PEAEL-HANDLED KNIFE. 

It was a bright and a merry child, 

And the father of half his grief beguiled. 

Another year and another past, 

And the child in beauty flourished fast. 

And the father's heart no more was sad, 

And the mother's heart was j)roud and glad : 

She forgot her sin, as too many do. 

And fancied God had forgot it too. 

A guilty deed may be long concealed, 

But its time shall come to be revealed. 

And long unjiunished may flourish crime. 

But vengeance cometh in God's good time. 

It was a fair and a sunny day. 

And Robert went in the fields to play ; 

But the shades of night began to fall 

Before he returned to his father's hall — 

*' Oh, Robert ! where have you been so long ? 

My child, to wander so late is wrong. " 

" Mamma, I am sorry I stayed so late, — 

This morning I passed by the churchyard gate, 

And found it open; I wandered there. 

To gather the flowers so fresh and fliir ; 

And weary at last with my play alone, 

I laid me down on the nearest stone. 

I had not been resting long, before 

I noticed a tomb with a little door : 

Oh, mother ! I gazed in fear and doubt, 



THE PEAKL-IIANDLED KNIFE. 170 

For opened the door and a boy stept out ; 

But wlien his beauty beamed on my sight, 

My fear gave way to a strange deUght. 

Ilis cheek was fair as the sunset skies 

And Uke stars of heaven, liis sparkling eyes : 

Adown his shoulders his ringlets rolled. 

And glistened and gleamed in sunny gold ; 

But the charm all other charms above, 

Was the smile that melted the heart to love ; 

Yet was it a sad and a serious smile. 

And the tears would start to your eyes the while. 

He came where I lay; — he spoke — the sound 

Breathed music in all the air around ; 

He lay at my side, and he took my hand. 

And he talked of a brighter and better land, 

Wliere nothing of evil can enter in, 

N"or sickness nor death, nor sorrow nor sin ; 

Where God's holy children, a radiant band. 

In his garden of glory walk hand in hand ; 

Where all is bliss, and all is love — 

And he whisj^ered — ' Oh, come to my home above ! ' 

And thus we talked till the close of day, 

And then we arose to go away ; 

But he flung his arms around me mother. 

And kissed my forehead, and called me — ' Brother!' 

And as he turned to descend the grave. 

He gave me a keepsake — see what he gave ! " 



180 THE PEAEL-IIANDLED KNIFE. 

The mother looked — with a frantic start 

She j)lunged it into her guilty heart — 

It was a knife with a silver blade, 

And of mother-of-pearl was the handle made. 



THE BATTLE OF THE SNAKES. ]81 



THE BATTLE OF THE SNAKES. 

AN EPISTLE TO CATHAEIXE. 

Dear Kate — more dear than I can tell! 
No matter thongli — you know it well — 
Dear Kate — in this delicious weather, 
I wish, don't you ? we were together ; 
That we might wander, hand in hand, 
Amid those scenes of fairy land. 
Which now to glad thy vision rise. 
And fancy pictures to my eyes ; 
To climb the hills, the woods explore, 
Or ramble by the sea-beat shore. 
Where ringing waves delight thy ear 
With music mme shall never hear : 
Or rove where sweetest flowers embower 
My pretty Kate, " a sweeter flower ! " 
While balmy zephyrs kiss thy brow 
Of beauty — (might I kiss it now!) 

'Mid scenes like these, one summer's day, 
A lordly serpent wound his way; 



182 THE BATTLE OF THE SNAKES. 

From Rattler's line of longtli lie came, 
And gloried in a tail of flime ; 
His pointed tongue, his sparkling eyes. 
His gorgeous robe of thousand dyes — 
All these with rapture swelled his hide, 
For snakes, like other fools, have pride. 

While winding through a tangled brake, 
He chanced to meet another snake, 
Wlio wore a suit of sober black. 
Which might become a doctor's back. 
And coiled in many a ring, reclined. 
While thoughts as coiled perplexed his mind. 

" Good Parson Black ! ah, is it you ? " 
Quoth flippant Rattle, " How d' ye do ? " 

" I 'm pretty well, I thank you, sir. " 
" How 's Mrs. Black ? " " All 's well with lier. " 
" How are the little dears ?" " So so ; 
The youngest has been ailing though. " 
" How go the times ? " " Oh, very bad ! " 
Sighed Black ; " the times are truly sad, 
Which plunges me in deep dejection. 
And makes me ask m sage reflection, 
Why all that is beneath the skies, 
Is what it is — not otherwise ! 
Why Providence, by strange mistakes. 
Instead of men, has made us snakes ; 
Why we are born — and wherefore die — 
Wliy " " Fool !" quoth Rattle, " care not why! 



THE BATTLE OF THE SNAKES. 183 

He who himself will wretched make 

Deserves the hiss of every snake, 

Enough for us that all on earth 

Is full of beauty, life, and mirth ; 

While of its joys I have a share, 

I care not who may cherish care — 

Mine be the maxim wise and just: 

' Live while you live, die when you must ! "V 

" Then die this moment ! " Black exclaimed, 

"With foaming lip and eye inflamed. 

At this the other shook his rattle, 

To sound the stirring charge to battle. 

So fiercely they together flew, 

They bit each other right in two. 

Quoth Black, " I beg a truce, my friend, 

To ponder on my latter end ! " 

So each in difierent windmgs past, 

To seek his tail, and fix it fast ; 

But in their hurry, by mistake. 

Black got the tail of Rattlesnake, 

And Rattle to himself did tack. 

Unwittingly the tail of Black. 

Now Rattle fiercely shook the tail 
He thought his own, without avail, 
To wake the sound once wont to be 
His " earthquake voice of victory ! " 
N^ow right, now left, he lashed the ground. 
But burn the tail ! it gave no sound ! 



184 THE BATTLE OF THE SNAKES. 

He swings it left, he swings it right — 
In vain, poor Rattle bursts with spite. 

Black, for his part, had run away ! 
But as he runs, to his dismay, 
Loud from his tail a rattle peals. 
As if the foe were at his heels. 
More fast he runs, more loud it rings, 
And louder, as he faster springs : 
He runs for six successive suns, 
And still it rattles as he runs : 
He runs and runs till out of breath, 
And then the rattle sleeps in death. 

You say this story can't be true — 
Dear Kate, I quite agree with you ! 
But now that I must say farewell. 
One little word of truth I '11 tell ; 
And well you know I speak sincerely. 
In saying, '■^Kate^Ilove you dearly!^'' 

Postscript. Some say they are not able 

To see the moral of my table ! 

Inform them, had the snakes been wise 

'T is like they would have used their eyes! 

And secondly, it hence appears. 

Our eyes are better than our ears ; 

From which reflection I contrive 

Some consolation to derive ; 

For though I ofi have sighed, my dear 



THE BATTLE OF TUB SNAKES. j S5 

That it is not for me to hear 

The thrilling music of thy voice, 

That would my very heart rejoice : 

Yet when my arm is round thee wreathing^ 

And on thy brow my lip is breatliing, 

When thy dear head my hand caresses, 

Or wreathes among thy raven tresses. 

Or clasps in mine thy fairy fingers, 

While fond my look upon thee lingers, 

Then, while emparadised, I trace 

Affection breathing from thy face — 

Oh, tlien I feel in deep delight. 

There is a music for the sio-ht ! 

Which I would not exchange for all 

Tliat ever on the ear may fill. 



186 CATCIIIXG A FOX. 



CATCHING A FOX. 

A FABLE. 
IKSCRIBED TO MY LITTLE FRIEND CATIIAEINE. 

The rise of provisions, and hardness of times, 
Had thinned a poor fox like a stringer of rhymes, 
And thinner and thinner became the poor sinner, 
With never a penny to get him a dinner ; 
(For me, when I come to that sorrowful state, 
I know where to go — to my OAvn little Kate.) 
But the fox only went, with a sigh and a shiver. 
To drink, like a temperance man, at the river ; 
When, hark! from the stream came a musical voice, 

Disturbmg his reverie sad — 
Rejoice ! rejoice ! 
Rejoice ! rejoice ! 

Oh ! is not an oyster a clever lad?" 

The fox turned round with a cheerful gleam, 
And dipped his tail in the cooling stream. 
And twitched and twirled it with all his might. 
But never a fish was the fool to bite ; 
This the oyster saw, while his merry voice 
Repeated the chorus glad : 



CATCHING A FOX. 187 

"Rejoice! rejoice! 
Rejoice! rejoice! 
- Oh ! is not an oyster a clever lad ?" 

Thought the oyster, " Now is the time for glory, 
And to win a name in historic story! 
This mighty fox shall my trimiiph grace, 
And my fame shall shine on the oyster race." 
This said, he snapped at the fox's tail, 
While all the fishes stood mute and pale. 
" Sir fox," says he, with exulting voice, 

" I guess you are caught, egad ! 
Rejoice! rejoice! 
Rejoice! rejoice! 

Oh ! is not an oyster a clever lad ! " 

Away from the river sped the fox, 
Nor stojDped till he came to a pile of rocks, 
Then he swimg his tail right fast and well. 
And banged the oyster out of his shell, 
And ate him up for a dinner choice. 
And chuckled the chorus glad, 
" Rejoice ! rejoice ! 
Rejoice ! rejoice ! 
Oh ! is not an oyster a clever lad ! " 



188 THE OLD CLOCK. 



THE OLD CLOCK. 

Two Yankee wags, one summer day, 
Stopped at a tavern on their way, 
Sup25ed, frolicked, late retired to rest, 
And woke to breakfast on the best. 

The breakfast over, Tom and Will 

Sent for the landlord and the bill ; 

Will looked it over : " Very right — 

But hold ! what wonder meets my sight ! 

Tom ! the surprise is quite a shock ! " 

" What wonder ? where ?"— " The clock ! the clock !" 

Tom and the landlord in amaze 
Stared at the clock with stupid gaze, 
And for a moment neither spoke ; 
At last the landlord silence broke — 

" You mean the clock that 's ticldng tlier^ ? 
I see no wonder I declare ; 
Though may be, if the truth were told, 
'T is rather ugly — somewhat old ; 
Yet time it keeps to half a minute ; 
But, if you please, what wonder's in it?" 
" Tom ; don't you recollect," said Will, 
" The clock at Jersey, near the mill, 



THE OLD CLOCK. 189 

The very image of this present, 

With which I won the wager pleasant ? " 

Will ended with a knowmg wink — 

Tom scratched his head and tried to think. 

" Sir, begging pardon for inquiring," 

The landlord said, with grin admiring. 

" What wager was it ? " 

" You remember 
It happened, Tom, in last December, 

In sport I bet a Jersey Blue 

That it was more than he could do, 

To make his finger go and come 

In keeping with the pendulum. 

Repeating, till one hour should close, 

Still, '•Here she goes — coicl there she goes!'* 

He lost the bet in half a minute. " 

" Well, if Z would, the deuce is in it ? " 

Exclaimed the landlord ; " try me yet, 

And fifty dollars be the bet, " 

" Agreed ; but we will play some trick 

To make you of the bargam sick ! " 

" I 'm up to that ! " " Don't make us wait. 
Begin. The clock is striking eight." 
He seats himself, and left and right 
His finger wags Avith all its might. 
And hoarse his voice and hoarser grows 
With — "Acre she goes — and there she goes!"*"* 



190 THE OLD CLOCK. 

" Hold!" said the Yankee, " plank the ready! 

The landlord wagged his finger steady, 

While his left hand, as well as able, 

Conveyed a purse upon the table. 

" Tom, with the money let 's be off! " 

This made the landlord only scoff! 

He heard them runnmg down the stair. 

But was not tempted from his chair ; 

Thought he, " The fools ! I '11 bite them yet ! 

So poor a trick sha'n't win the bet. " 

And loud and loud the chorus rose 

Of, '"'•Here she goes — a7id there she goes ! " 

While right and left his finger swung, 

In keeping to his clock and tongue. 

His mother happened in, to see 

Her daughter; "where is 3Irs. B f 



When will she come, as you suppose ? 
Son ! " 

'-'-Here she goes — and there she goes ! " 

" Here ? — where ? " — the lady in surprise 
His finger followed with her eyes ; 
" Son, why that steady gaze and sad ? 
Those words — that motion — are you mad ? 
But here 's your wife — perhaps she knows 

And" 

'•'"Here she goes — and there she goes ! " 



THE OLD CLOCK. 191 

His wife surveyed him with alarm, 

And rushed to him and seized his arm ; 

He shook her off, and to and fro 

His finger persevered to go. 

While curled his very nose with ire, 

That she against him should conspire. 

And with more furious tone arose 

The "Aere she goes — and there she goes ! " 

*' Lawks ! " screamed the wife, " I 'ni in a whirl! 
Run down and bring the little girl ; 
She is his darling, and who knows 
But " 

^'•Ilere she goes — cmd there she goes!'''* 

*' Lawks ! he is mad ! what made him thus ? 

Good Lord ! what will become of us ? 

Run for a doctor — run — run — run — 

For Doctor Brown, and Doctor Dun, 

And Doctor Black, and Doctor White, 

And Doctor Grey, with all your might." 

The doctors came, and looked and wondered. 

And shook their heads, and paused and pondered, 

Till one proposed he should be bled, 

" No — leeched you mean" — the other said — 

" Clap on a blister," roared another, 

tc Xo — cup him " — " No— trepan him, brother ! " 

A sixth would recommend a purge. 

The next would an emetic urge. 



192 THE OLD CLOCK. 

The eighth, just come from a dissection, 

His verdict gave for an injection; 

The last produced a box of pills, 

A certain cure for earthly ills ; 

" I had a patient yesternight, " 

Quoth he, " and wretched v^^as her plight. 

And as the only means to save her 

Tliree dozen patent pills I gave her, 

And by to-morrow I suppose 

That" 

'■'"Here site goes — and there s/ie goes!'''' 

" You all are fools, " the lady said, 

" The way is, just to shave his head. 

Run, bid the barber come anon" — 

" Thanks mother, " thought her clever son, 

'■''You help the knaves that would have bit me. 

But all creation sha'n't outwit me ! " 

This to himself, while to and fro 

His finger perseveres to go, 

And from his lij) no accent flows 

But, "Acre she goes — and there she goes!'''' 

The barber came — " Lord help him ! what 
A queerish customer I 've got ! 
But we must do our best to save him — 
So hold him, gemmen, while I shave him ! " 



THE OLD CLOCK. I93 

But here the doctors mterpose — 

" A woman never " 

''''There she goes!'*'' 

" A woman is no judge of physic, 

Not even when her baby is sick. 

He must be bled" — " No — no — a blister" — 

"A purge you mean" — " I say a clyster " — 

"No— cup him — " "Leech him — " "Pills! pills! pills!" 

And all the house the uproar fills. 

What means that smile? what means that shiver? 
The landlord's limbs with rapture quiver, 
And triumph brightens \\^ his face — 
His finger yet shall win the race I 
The clock is on the stroke of nine — 

And up he starts " 'T is mine ! 't is mine ! " 

" What do you mean ? " 

"I mean the fifty! 
I never s];)ent an hour so thrifty ; 
But you, who tried to make me lose, 
Go burst wdth envy, if you choose ! 
But how is this? where are they?" 

"Who?" 
" The gentlemen — I mean the two 
Came yesterday — are they below ? " 
" They galloped ofi" an hour ago." 
" Oh, purge me ! bUster ! shave and bleed ! 
For, hang the knaves, I 'm mad indeed ! " 



194 THE MAGIC KING. 



THE MAGIC RING. 

I HAD a magic ring, 

A charm of wondrous power, 
If placed on fitting hand. 

And in a fitting hour : 
For, to a worthy hand. 

This talisman would bring 
Good fortune and renown, 

And every precious thing ; 
And youth and beauty's grace 

Forever would preserve, 
But only to the face 

That might the gift deserve. 
Concealed from every sight, 

I wore this gem of art, 
I hung it round my neck, 

And hid it on my heart. 
For years and years I tried 

A fitting hand to find. 
And to the anxious search 

I gave up heart and mmd. 



THE MAGIC KIKG. 195 

Whene'er I met with one 

Who seemed of worth indeed, 
I took mysterious w^ays 

Her very soul to read ; 
And more to prove her heart, 

My heart to her I gave. 
And waited on her wdsh, 

A pleased and willing slave. 
But ere upon her hand 

The ring its glory shed. 
Her love in something failed, 

And mine forever fled ! 

One came at last, who seemed 

To live for me alone. 
To never have a wish 

Or will, except my ot\ti : 
Her smile around me shone 

As soft as summer skies. 
And all the light of heaven 

Looked on me from her eyes. 
I tried her love and truth. 

In every w^ay I could ; 
But firm her love remamed. 

Her truth unshaken stood. 
" The fitting liand is found," 

I said, " Thou charm divine ! 
And in a fitting time 

Thy light shall on it shine ! 



]9G THE MAGIC RING. 

Then fortune's rarest gifts 

Shall wait upon her lot ; 
And beauty that i^^ll last, 

And fame that fadeth not ! " 
Well pleased, I wandered forth. 

To muse on this alone — 
When crashing to my heart, 

There came a little stone ! 
And whose the careless hand 

By which the stone was hurled ? 
Oh, say it was not hers ! 

Not hers, of all the world ! 
Alas ! the hand was hers 

From which the missile flew ! 
It shattered my poor heart ! 

The ring was shivered, too ! 



THE STOr.Y OF A KING. 197 



THE STORY OF A KING. 

DEDICATED TO AN EMPEROR. 

"What are those people reading?" 
Said Frederick, lialf aloud, 

As looking from his window 
He saw an eager crowd. 

One of his six-foot soldiers 

Who heard him, answered, " Sire ! 
Your Majesty permitting, 

I hasten to inquire." 

He soon returned: " Oli, Sire! 

'T is horrible to see ! 
'T is an atrocious libel 

Upon your Majesty!" 

" A libel ! " said the monarch, 

And paused with thoughtful frown- 

" Shall I disperse the people ? "— 
" Xo — merely take it down." 



198 THE STORY OF A KING. 

" Yes, Sire ! " — " Friend, stop a moment- 
You '11 take it clown, indeed — 

But just to place it lower, 
So all witli ease may read." 

The soldier stood bewildered, 
But from the monarch's eye 

He caught a hidden meaning. 
And left without reply. 

When he removed the paper 
They watched with sullen eyes. 

But when he placed it lower, 
They stood in hushed surprise. 

" Now read at your convenience — 
The king Avould have it so. 

Content to ask his people 

Are these thingjs true or no ? " 



& 



They spurned away the libel 

Which now had lost its weight — 

A thunder rose to heaven — 
" Live Frederick the Great ! " 

Now this was not the weakness 
Of a good-natured fool — 

It was the manly wisdom 
Of one that knew to rule. 



THE STOKY OF A KING. 199 

Thou who to France hast given 

Her former power and glory, 
Complete thy own, by taking 

The moral of my story. 

Trust in thyself and people — 

In chains and exile less — 
To take the sting from libels. 

Give freedotn to the press! 



200 WHAT I WOULD LIKE. 



WHAT I WOULD LIKE. 

I AM a very moderate man, 

Of moderate fortune, too : 
I 've forty dollars, and I think 

A little more would do. 
I only wish to buy a house, 

Where fashion holds her sway. 
And furnish it with all that best 

Becomes the present day. 
A carriage I would hke to have, 

And horses, two or four ; 
But forty dollars will not pay — 

I 'd like a Httle more. 
Sculptures aud paintings I would like, 

The best of every time ; 
And books by thousands, — all the good 

Of every age and clime. 
Grand parties I would like to give 

To fifty thousand bores. 
And hand my purse to borrowing friends, 

(God knows they come by scores.) 



WHAT I WOULD LIKE. 201 

I 'd like to win the ladies' hearts 

With presents they adore , 
But forty dollars won't do that — 

I 'd like a little more. 
And something of less selfish ami 

Should also share my wealth, 
The ragged I would like to clothe, 

And give to sickness health. 
I 'd like to give the foreign thieves 

And beggars, every day, 
By thousands, pours upon our shores, 

The means to go away. 

I 'd like to make my friends all rich, 

And all the nation blest ; 
But forty dollars will not do — 

W/io offers me the rest? 



9* 



202 THE people's PPvINCES. 



THE PEOPLE'S PPJNCES. 

As I was sauntering througli the street, 
In mood half tlioiiglitful and half merry, 

I chanced a barefoot boy to meet, 
Ragged, and very dirty — very. 

His brow was dark with grief — and dirt — 
Unknown to joy or Croton water — 

Yet Nature made him fair and bright 
As any rich man's son or daugliter. 

Slight fragment of humanity. 

Unnoticed by thy luckier brothers ! 

I wonder what thy lot will be. 

And what its bearing upon others ! 

Just now my dog is more account. 

Who snapping at thy bare heels follows ;- 

Those would not give a cent for thee. 
Would bid for him a hundred dollars ! 

That girl in gold and gems arrayed, 
Some " curled darling of our nation, " 

Who glances at thee half afraid. 

Would thmk thy touch a degradation. 



THE PEOPLE^S PEACES. 203 



That simpering fop, more girlish still, 
Dressed up as for a world's mspection, 

Averts his face with quickening pace. 
As if he thought thy sight infection. 

No matter — thou hast mind and soul 
Within thy form's unsightly prison ; 

And these may urge thee yet to rise, 
As many a mighty man has risen. 

Do wash thy face ! — so I may trace 
Some glimpses of thy future story ; 

Who knows but fate may grace thee yet 
With youth and beauty, wealth and glory! 

Oh, then, that girl who shuns thee now, 
May seek in thee her joy or sorrow ; 

That fop may boast himself thy friend. 

And come like mme — to fawn and borrow! 

That as it may — the humblest child 
I reverence, though in dirt and tatters, 

As equal in the sight of God 

With any prince that fortune flatters. 

For ye are princes, Little Ones ! 

Heirs of the Kingdom of Salvation ! 
Your heavenly birthright keep in view, 

No matter what your earthly station ! 



204 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 



TWENTY YEARS AGO. 

I MET a girl the other day, 
Some twelve years old, or so. 

The image of a nymph I loved 
Some twenty years ago. 

The blushing cheek, the sparkling eye, 

The hair of raven flow, — 
Ah, how they set my heart a-blaze 

Some twenty years ago ! 

I spoke — her answers did not mucli 

Of wit or wisdom show — 
But thus the lovely Flora talked 

Some twenty years ago. 

What ! could a shallow girl like this 
My heart m tumult throw ? 

I must have been a httle green 
Some twenty years ago ! 

I 've met the lovely Flora since — 
Her charms have vanished, though — 

Her wit and wisdom are — the same 
As twenty years ago ! 



THE INFLUENCE OF THE AFFECTIONS. 205 

I look upon that faded cheek, 

Unht by feeling's glow ; 
And thank her that she scorned my love 

Some twenty years ago ! 

Fond boy! who now wonldst gladly die 

To please some simpering Miss — 
God knows what thou Avilt think of her 

Some twenty years from this ! 



THE INFLUENCE OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

The beautiful humanities 

Of Nature in the simplest dress, 
Speak to our sweetest sympathies 

Far more than language can express. 
I saw a ragged little boy 

Run to a withered dame's embrace. 
To welcome her with bounding joy. 

And fondly press her haggard face. 
Her shabby garment to his eyes 

Is rich ; her withered face is fair ; 
For they are hers — and she supplies 

His perished mother's love and care. 
The world is full of pain and harm, 

And life at best is little worth ; 
Yet pure affection is a charm 

That almost makes a heaven of earth. 



206 SOISTG OF THE TOOTHACHE IMPS. 



SONG OF THE TOOTHACHE IMPS. 

Sometimes about a hollow tooth 
We dance around, around the mouth ; 
Thither the throbbing torture comes, 
And ague swellmg doleful gums : 
Sometimes we dance through bone and brain 
To howls of rage and yells of pain, 
And when with patient men we meet. 
We dance — to the stamping of their feet. 
At the wight's raving, dismal voice. 
When others tremble we rejoice. 
And nimbly, nimbly, dance we still 
To the echoes from the horrid thrill !* 

*SONG OF THE WITCHES. 

" Sometimes about a hollow tree, 

Around, around, around, dance we ; 

Thither the chirping cricket comes. 

And beetles singing drowsy hums ; 

Sometimes we dance o'er ferns and furze 

To hovvls of wolves and barks of curs ; 

And when with none of tliese we meet, 

"We dance — to the echoes of our feet I 

At the night-raven's dismal voice, 

"Wlien others tremble we rejoice : 

And nimbly, nimbly dance we still 

To the echoes from a hollow hill ! '' — Macbeth. 



THE WET MORNING. 207 



THE WET MORNING. 

EQUirPED with silk umbrella, 

And broadcloth overcoat, 
With overshoes and leggins, 

And muffled to the throat. 
Forth from a plenteous table. 

Where he could nothing eat. 
Steps Midas to his carriage, 

And takes his lordly seat. 
The sleek and 2:)ompous coachman, 

The footman spruce and proud, 
Attend upon him, cringing, 

Among the cringing crowd ; 
Yet on his cheek is fever. 

And on his brow a frown, 
As off he rides, the richest 

And saddest man in town ! 

Barefooted and bareheaded. 

His garments torn and thin. 
His heart as free from sorrow 

As ours should be from sin ; 
Fresh from some scanty table, 

Where, well content, he fed. 
Perhaps on bad potatoes, 

Perhaps on crusts of bread ; 



208 THE WET MORNING. 

Flushed high, not with the mne-cup, 

But with his youthful blood ; 
Regardless of the ram-drops, 

Unconscious of the mud ; 
Forth bounds the little Gamin, 

And trolls his hoop along. 
With now a careless whistle. 

And now a snatch of song. 
His jacket flung wide open. 

His bosom bare and brown, 
He runs, the ragged rascal. 

The happiest wight hi town ! 

With many cares and troubles 

It tasks my strength to bear, 
I look on many pleasures 

I may not hope to share : 
Yet finds the serpent, envy, 

No shelter in my breast — 
Let theirs be power and glory. 

Who have deserved them best ; 
Let theirs be wealth and grandeur — 

Who best deserve — or not — 
My own may be as happy, 

Although an humbler lot ; 
And still to every station 

That Fate awards below, 
She gives its compensation, 

If we could only know ! 



LIFE AND DEATH. 209 

And to the least among us 

God sends some blessing down, 
That leaves no cause to envy 

The greatest man in town ! 

Then go ! ye dreams of glory ! 

Of fortune, hopes as vain ! 
Farewell, ye smiles of beauty! 

So youth and health remain ! 
Ah ! Time, remorseless, whispers, 

" Farewell to youth and health ! " 
Rejoice, poor little Gamin ! 

For thine, a priceless wealth ! 
And one who would not envy 

The laurel or the crown, 
Might envy httle Gamin, 

The happiest wight in town ! 



LIFE AND DEATH. 

FROM THE GERMAX. 

Life is the hot and garish sun — 
Death the refreshing night. — 

Come darkness ! I am sleepy now 
And weary of the light ! 

There springs a tree above my bed- 
A bird amid it gleams — 

It sings aloud — it smgs of love — 
I hear it in my dreams. 



210 BOOTH. 



BOOTH. 

Just now it came into my head, 

I know not how it came, 
That somewhere I have heard or read. 
That Junius Beutus Booth was dead. 

An actor of some fame. 

In Richard he was really great. 

Though Kean's was lauded higher : 
All parts, when not in tipsy state, 
He jilayed with judgment accurate. 
With spirit, force, and fire. 

His tragic powers high praise bespeak — 

His comic claim as high ; 
Profound in the absurd or weak. 
He made you laugh in Jerry S^steak, 

And almost made you cry ! 

For to his sense, with feeling rife. 

The " fun " was not the best — 
That tragedy of common life. 
The loving fool, the tyrant vnfe. 
He deemed a serious jest. 

He was a scholar deeply versed 
In old and modern lore ; 



BOOTH. 211 



A poet, too, and not the worst ; 
His lines, when by hunself rehearsed, 
Were seldom thought a bore. 

At Holland's lodgings once we met — 

Our speech on trifles ran — 
The nothings that we soon forget. 
But leaves me an impression yet 
Of " wit and gentleman. " 

A bard, the humblest of our times. 

While sauntermg down the street, 
Together strung these careless rhymes, 
And thought how oft ambition climbs 
As poor reward to meet ! 

What lasts of Booth ?— a paragraph 

Some flippant paper gives ; — 
A lie, or only true by half. 
To set on barren fools to laugh — 
And thus his " glory" lives ! 

Green boy, who seest on the stage 

Some bully foam and roar, 
And thinkest it glorious to engage 
Applause, by shammmg grief or rage, 
Go be a fool no more ! 

Few idols of the box or pit 

Might well with Booth compare ; 



212 THE SUM OF PHILOSOPHY. 

A genius, scholar, poet, wit. 
For every range of talent fit — 

And Booth is what ? — and where ? 

In vain his mind was heaven-inspired, 

By study, too, refined — 
All nature gave, or art acquired, 
Was only for the hour admired. 
And then it passed from mind. 

Life's real scenes should be thy stage — 

Act well and nobly there — 
Subdue thy passions, curb their rage — 
Thou may est not man's apjolause engage- 
But that of angels share ! 



THE SUM OF PHILOSOPHY. 

Do fortune's smiles upon thee wait, 
With honor, power, and high estate. 
Let not thy heart be too elate — 

All this shall pass away. 
Art thou the sj^ort of fortune's hate. 
Forsaken, poor, and desperate. 
Still bear the worst with mind sedate ; 

All this shall pass away. 
Our joys and pains are brief in date ; 
The deeds we do of good and great, 
Alone survive our mortal state, 

And never pass away. 



THE IIEKO. 213 

THE HERO. 

INSCRIBED TO JAMES 13. K . 

Let others sing of deeds of arms 

By heroes who have ravaged earth, 
Who shook the Avorld with war's alarms, 

While death and carnage crowned their worth; 

A nobler hero claims my song 

Than we on history's page may find ; 

Not his the fame of doing wrong- 
He lives a blessing to mankind. 

A blessmg and a martyr, too — 

For them all comfort he forsakes ; 
AYhen others for assistance sue. 

From friends and fimiily he breaks. 
He leaves his food, he leaves his sleep. 

E'en m the deadest hour of night, 
Thouo-h floods descend and tempests sweep, 

And heaven denies one gleam of light. 
Throuo-h storm and darkness on he goes, 

To hut or hall— no matter where ; 
Litent to soothe the sufferer's woes, 

And save the mourner from despair. 
Scenes he must view that break his heart. 

And deeds perform his blood that chill ; 
But so that he may good impart, 

He acts as with an iron will. 



214 THE IIEKO. 

And he must bear with vain complaints, 
When Nature makes the progress slow ; 

But with a patience worthy saints, 
Will still his needful cares bestow. 

Alike to palaces of wealth. 

Or hovels where the friendless pine, 

He carries comfort, life, and health. 
As if a messenger divine. 

For this his comfort up he gave, 
For this his health is often lost. 

And oft another's life to save 
The 23eril of his life has cost. 

Who is this hero, who may claim 

The world's applause and that of heaven ? 

Ah, friend ! if I should breathe thy name, 
No other answer need be ffiven ! 



&' 



All good physicians share the praise — 
May worthy honors on them fall ! 

But thou w^ho hast prolonged my days, 
I fain would praise thee more than all ! 

But not for j)raise didst thou impart 
Thy aid, or any selfish ends ; 

Yet take this tribute of my heart. 
Best of physicians and of friends ! 



WnAT SHOULD WE DO, MY BKOTIIER ? 215 



WHAT SHOULD WE DO, MY BROTHER? 

Where pleasant fields are growing, 

Where rocks are tossed on liigli, 
Where streams m music flowing, 

Delight the ear and eye. 
Where rivalling each other, 

Fair scenes invite our choice, 
What should we do, my brother ? 

Rejoice ! we should rejoice ! 

Where woods in tangled wildness 

Oppose our weary way. 
Where bowers in shady mildness 

Invite a sweet delay ; 
Where wild birds to each other 

Their blithesome carols voice, 
What should we do, my brother ? 

Rejoice ! we should rejoice ! 

When slowly home returning, 

While moonlight's golden streams 
Refresh the brow still burning 

With day's departing beams ; 
While cheering on each other 

With songs of merry voice. 
What should we do, my brother ? 

Rejoice ! we should rejoice ! 



216 THE CANARY BIRD. 



THE CAKARY BIRD. 

TniNE is a lovely song, my bird ! 
Though by thy mates 't is never heard, 
And it may seem to those around 
An idle, though a pleasant sound ; 
For not to them is given to know 
The feelings whence thy carols flow. 
Bird ! thou art severed from thy kind, 
And in a narrow cage confined, 
AVhose bars obscure the fields of light 
Which once alone could bound thy flight, 
Of which the glimpses serve at most 
To mock the freedom thou hast lost ; 
Yet, bird, thy heart is brave and strong, 
Companioned only by thy song. 
Which careless if 't is heard or not. 
Sheds light and beauty on thy lot ; 
The gift of God thou dost employ, 
And in its use dost find thy joy. 

Like thine how oft the poet's fate ; 
How lone it seems — how desolate ! 



THE CANARY BIRD. 217 

No kindred spirit near to share 

The feelings which he wastes on air ; 

No heart in which he can awake 

Kesponsive chords to thrill or break ! 

Life's fettermg cares around him cling, 

And bind to earth his heavenly wing, 

And from his vision half eiface 

The skies which are his native place. 

His proudest lay is heard by few. 

Nor meets from those the honor due, 

But to the kindest seems to be 

A beauty — but a mystery ! — 

Yet though it may not win him flame, 

Or love, his more exalted ami, 

His godlike thoughts will have their voice. 

And in that glorious sound rejoice. 

As mounting heaven, it peals along. 

To God as a thanksgiving song ! 



218 YOUI^a NAPOLEON AT HIS FATIIEr's GEAVE 



YOUNG NAPOLEON AT HIS FATHER'S 
GRAVE. 

FEOM THE GERMAN OF SAPHIR. 

The king of Rome in slumber 

In Schonbrun's garden lies ; 
Sees not the light of heaven, 

Sees not the vaulted skies ; 
Far on a foreign island 

Reclmes Napoleon ; 
Lies not with his own people, 

Lies not beside his son ; 
Lies not amid his marshals. 

The pillars of his throne, 
Lies not among his soldiers. 

In Europe, once his own ; 
But buried deep in darkness. 

Mid circlmg seas and skies. 
Chained to a rock forever 

The dead Prometheus Hes. 

Where scorching sunbeams wither 
Trunk, leaf, and branch, and all, 

The mighty Emperor slumbers, 
•'The Little Corpoml! 



YCU:N^G napoleon at his father's grave. 219 

No flowers above him flourish, 

No cyi^ress branches wave ; 
In sight of all creation, 

No pilgrim seeks his grave. 

Thus many years he slmubers, 

Deserted and alone ; 
When hark ! there comes at midnight 

A knock upon the stone ; 
A knock — a gentle whisper. 

But of no mortal breath : 
" Wake up ! wake up ! thou hero ! 

Wake from the sleep of death!" 
Another knock and whisper : 

" Rise mighty Emperor ! 
Here to thy court with tidings 

Comes Earth's ambassador ! " 
Another knock and whis23er : 

" Rise father ! take me home ! 
My soul has come in lightnmg ! 

Thy only child has come ! " 

Earth crumbles — marble sunders, 

And heaves aside the lid. 
That long of the dead hero 

The awful ashes hid ; 
And then its fleshless finger 

Th' imperial corpse extends, 



220 YOUNG NAPOLEON AT HIS FATIIEe's GEAVE. 

To show his heir of glory 
His empire's farthest ends. 

" Look do\\Ti into my palace, 

My dear, my only son ! 
Again do I behold thee. 

My child — Napoleon ! 
Survey the ground beneath me. 

The walls on either hand ; 
The length and breadth thou seest 

Of all thy father's land ! " 
Then hand in hand they grappled 

In skeleton embrace ; 
And lip to lip caressing. 

They nestled face to face ; 
The grave closed in that moment 

On father and on son ; 
And vanished in that moment 

The House-Napoleon ! 



NEW-YEAE THOUGHTS. 221 

NEW-YEAR THOUGHTS. 

How many are now in the cold grave reposing 

Who welcomed the dawn of the year that has fled ! 
Hew little, alas ! did they think that its closing 

Should find them inurned in the home of the dead ! 
How many this year to the grave's dark dominions 

Shall hasten, who welcome its rising career, 
Ere time once again on his air-feathered pinions 

Shall usher the dawn of another New-Year ! 

And I, who now muse on the thousands departed, 

May follow them ere the return of this day, 
T3edewed with the tears of some friend broken-hearted, 

AVlio now smiles upon me, unthinking and gay ; 
And better than I should survive to deplore them. 

The few that to share my affections remain. 
Oh, better by far I should perish before them, 

Nor hail the return of the New- Year afrain ! 



o 



How sad to be torn from our friends and connexions, 

And hid in the valley of darkness alone ! 
What comfort to hope their survivmg affections 

Shall cherish our image on memory's throne! 
The hearts that now love me, will they not regret me ? 

Will ever my memory cease to be dear ? 
Tlie friends of my bosom — oh ! can they forgot me. 

If swept from their sight by the close of the year? 



222 A. IIUNDEED YEARS FKOM :N0W. 

/ 



A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW. 

What millions live to-day 
As they might ever stay, 
How soon to pass away ! 

Sweet face and lofty brow, 
So pleasant now to see — 
Alas ! where will they be 

A hundred years from now ? 

The sage with silver hair, 
Proud youth and maiden fair. 
Time will not pause to spare- 
Glad childhood's sunny brow. 
The infant's dimpling face — 
All gone without a trace, 
A hundred years from now ! 

The ills we scarce sustain, 
The trouble and the pain 
That vex the heart and brain, 
And wring the calmest brow — 



A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW. 223 

All serious as they seem, 
Fade, a forgotten dream, 
A hundred years from now ! 

The time seems far away. 
Yet will not long delay, 
It comes with every day 

That goes, we know not how ! 
Howe'er thy lot be cast, 
'T is all tlie same at last, 

A hundred years from now. 

In all but this the same — 
Some few may leave a name, 
A monument of fame 

That time shall never bow ; 
Or heavenly-thoughted page. 
To consecrate our age 

A hundred years from now ! 



224 VANITY OF VAI^ITIES. 



VANITY OF VANITIES. 

Vanity of vanities ! 

All the joys of earth, 
Vanity of vanities ! 

Are of little worth. 
Vanity of vanities ! 

"Wealth and grandeur high, 
Vanity of vanities ! 

Small the bliss they buy! 
Vanity of vanities ! 

Sweetest woman's smile, 
Vanity of vanities ! ' 

Charms but for a while ! 
Vanity of vanities ! 

Glory's loudest blast, 
Vanity of vanities ! 

Dulls the ear at last ! 
Vanity of vanities ! 

What is life at best ? 
Vanity of vanities ! 

AU but death's a jest ! 



NEW-YEAR IIYMI^. £25 



NEAY-YEAR HYMN. 

Thaxks to our Heavenly Father ! 

Though angels tune his praise, 
He will permit His children 

Their humbler song to raise : 
Thanks to our Heavenly Father, 

Whose love sustains us here, 
And spares us yet to welcome 

Another hapj)y year ! 

For all the years departed. 

For all the years to come. 
For all the thousand blessinjjs 

That crown our happy home : 
For all our loving kindred. 

For all the friends Ave claim. 
We thank our Heavenly Father, 

And bless His holy name ! 



10* 



226 SPRING IS COMING. 



SPRIN^G IS COMING. 

Spkixg is coming ! Spring is coming ! 
Birds are chirping, insects humming ; 
Flowers are peej^ing from their sleeping ; 
Streams, escaped from winter's keeping, 
In delighted freedom rushing, 
Dance along in music gushing, 
Scenes of late in deadness saddened, 
Smile in animation gladdened : 
All is beauty, all is mirth. 
All is glory uj^on earth : 
Shout we then with Nature's voice, 
"Welcome, Spring! rejoice! rejoice!" 

Spring is coming ! come, my brother. 
Let us wander with each other 
To our well remembered wildwood. 
Flourishing in Nature's childhood. 
Where a thousand birds are smging. 
And a thousand flowers are springing. 
Where the dancing sunbeams quiver 
On the forest-shaded river ; 
Let our youth of feeling out 
To the youth of Nature shout. 
While the hills repeat our voice — 
Welcome, Spring! rejoice! rejoice!" 



MY PRETTY BIRDS. 227 

MY PRETTY BIRDS. 

My pretty birds, as sweet your song, 

And of as blithesome kind. 
As when you winged your flight along. 

By but the skies confined ; 
Though severed from your native bowers, 

And caged in narrow space, 
-A^s gay ye carol through your hours 

As in your native place. 

And grateful to the tender hand 

That watches o'er your need, 
Your little hearts with love expand, 

While from that hand ye feed ; 
And this is well — ye need not mourn 

The scenes that ye have lost, 
For there the pangs ye might have borne 

Of famine or of frost. 

But man less wise — restrained from ill 

By the Ahnighty's bars. 
The rage to have his erring will 

His spirit's music jars. 
My birds, my sweet philosophers. 

May I your wisdom learn. 
And welcoming what God confers. 

To His protection turn. 



228 MY CAP. 



MY CAP. 

My cap ! my well-worn leather cap ; 

Though time has diimned thy glossy hue, 
Though broken hangs thy useless strap, 

And spots obscure thy band of blue, 
I would not give thee for the best 

That graces fashion's votary; 
So long hast thou my brow caressed, 

Thou hast become a part of me ; 

And happy thoughts, of better worth. 

Are born in thy obscure embrace. 
Than any diadem of earth 

Encircles in its resting-place. 
With thee on my unhonored head, 

I con the page of mystic lore. 
Explore the light by genius shed. 

And gather wisdom's precious ore. 

For years, in every scene of pride 
Or joy that it was mine to tread. 

My chosen friend was at my side. 
And thou, my cap ! upon my head ; 



MY CAP. 



229 



And thus we rambled many a mile, 
To witness Nature's wildest charms, 

To revel in her glorious smile, 
Or worship her sublime alarms. 

We braved the tempest's furious shock, 

In shivermg night, or burning day; 
Headlong we leaped from rock to rock, 

Or through the forest toiled our way ; 
Or wandered where the rivers glide 

In darkness by the tangled cliff. 
Or tossed npon their swelling tide 

That sobbed around the shudderm^ skiff' 

With Jerome thou hast seen me share 

All the communion friendship knows, 
The wildest hope, the deepest care. 

The brightest joys, the darkest woes : 
To hmi, then, when I must depart. 

To lay my head on :N'ature's lap. 
For kingdom I 'd bequeath my heart, 

For diadem— my leather cap! 



230 THE !SUN. 



THE SUN. 

Come forth, thou glorious sun ! 

And brighten up the skies, 
And smile the worid upon. 

Whose life is in thine eyes ! 
Thou beautiful and bright ! 

Come to thy throne of day, 
Within whose mellow light 

My soul would melt away ! 

He comes ! he comes ! he blesses 

Creation like a god ; 
And flings his golden tresses 

Of glory all abroad ! 
liOok up, my soul, forsaken, 

But now, by every one. 
To greet thy friend, awaken — 

The sun ! the lovely sun ! 



A WOMAN AS SHE SHOULD BE. 231 



A WOMAN AS SHE SHOULD BE. 

In person decent, and in dress, 
Her manners and her words express 

The decency of mind ; 
Good humor brightens up her face, 
Where passion never leaves a trace, 

Nor frowns a look unkind. 
No vexing sneer, no angry word. 
No scandal from her lips is heard. 

Where truth and sweetness blend ; 
Submission to her husband's will, 
Her study is to please him still, 

His fond and faithful friend. 
She watches his returning way, 
When from the troubles of the day 

He seeks a home of bliss ; 
She runs to meet him with a smile. 
And if no eye be near the while. 

The smile is with a kiss ! 



232 FOEGET ME NOT. 

FORGET ME NOT. 

When I am in that distant place 

Where I must dwell awhile, 
How will I miss thy pleasant face, 

And its bewitching smile ! 
Thy image mil pursue me there 

Through each sequestered spot — 
And oh that mine thy thoughts may share ! 

Sweet friend ! forget me not ! 

In thee 't was mine to recognize 

One of no common kind — 
One look into each other's eyes. 

And mind replied to mind ! 
And still thy spuit walks with mme. 

Though far apart our lot. 
And still my soul repeats to thme — 

" Sweet friend ! forget me not ! " 

How brief our friendship's date appears ! 

And yet it seems to me 
As if we had been friends for years, 

As we for Ufe shall be ! 
And when, by Fate's remorseless will, 

I meet the common lot, 
I ask not for thy tears — ^but still. 

Sweet friend! — forget me not! 




(Successors to Stanford & Swords,) 

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